The Matchmaker
by Tannin Tele
Summary: 'The Matchmaker' is a serial abductor whose modus operandi consists of pairing two same-sex individuals together in a coffin, six feet underground - buried alive. He isn't a killer. He's a kidnapper with morals, and Detective Chief Inspector Tom Riddle finds himself obsessed with solving the case. Unfortunately for Tom, the Matchmaker is just as intent on knowing him.
1. The Pronoun Game

**_The Matchmaker_**

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **I:**

 ** _The Pronoun Game_**

The Department of Law Enforcement's Emergency Taskforce was briefed at approximately 4 o'clock in the evening.

Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Riddle sat in front of the profilers, hands folded primly atop his desk. He tilted his head as a poorly-made sketch of the suspect was passed between him and Kingsley Shacklebolt, his second-in-command. Tom took a single glance at the document and rolled his eyes, shoving the drawing aside. It was a haphazardly thrown together composite; an amalgamation of the vague, blurry features that the seven surviving victims recalled of their attacker.

Was the perpetrator a man or woman? Or both, a transvestite, as one of the victims had declared with a goofy grin. Did the unsub have green eyes or brown eyes? Perhaps hazel? Were they a red-head, a brunette, or had it simply been too dark to tell? Nothing was conclusive, and the very word - _inconclusive -_ sent a shudder of revulsion down his spine. Tom _hated_ uncertainty.

He raked a hand down his face in frustration. With the recent death of one of the Matchmaker's victims, he was bogged down with paperwork, trying in vain to keep up the impression that the DLE knew what they were doing. They didn't. It was a case unlike any other he'd encountered.

Kingsley nudged at his side, and Tom tried half-heartedly to fix an expression of attentiveness onto his features.

Hestia Jones, their head profiler, stepped forward. She had stringy brown hair pulled into a pony-tail, and her mauve suit jacket was missing a button. Clenched in her hands was a slim notebook, the cover emblazoned with the DLE logo. She fumbled under Tom's gaze, struggling to find the correct page.

In the back of the room, the rest of the precinct stood silently, understanding that this was _not_ the time for idle chit-chat. Their stares made Hestia stutter through her introduction.

"F - from our research, w - we believe our unidentified suspect is white, in their early 20's. He - " she faltered. "I'm using the masculine pronoun as a filler - " Kingsley, beside Tom, nodded in understanding. "He's young. Unassuming. A cherubic figure, if you would. Seems entirely innocent at first, but his actions - not violent, but certainly traumatizing - may indicate a history of physical and psychological abuse, during his childhood. Being on the receiving end of belts and fists are likely why he shies away from violent means of abduction. We believe his childhood abuse was caused partially, if not totally, by the fact he's . . . " Hestia took a deep breath, casting a glance at her superiors.

Tom hissed a breath out through his teeth. "Go on." That was about as encouraging as he could get.

Hestia, chagrined, lowered her gaze and spoke quickly. "He is a repressed homosexual. His obsession with same-sex couples indicates this."

Kingsley shifted uncomfortably beside Tom, his expression contemplative. Tom barely blinked, gesturing for Hestia to continue.

"He's smart, smart enough to remain anonymous for so long, but lonely. From the testimony of one of the victims - um, Myrtle Warren, I believe her name was - he likely owns a dog, big and black. Man's best friend, someone to love you no matter what. There's a bunch of lore on black dogs being harbingers of death, but that's not really relevant here . . ." Hestia's voice faded, and she let out a small, dry cough. She flipped to the next page, muttering to herself. "I'm more of a cat person, myself."

Tom felt irritation prickle at him, but he allowed her to continue.

"He's . . . voyeuristic, in the way he records his victim's interactions, but he doesn't gain sexual pleasure from it. Heisn't a killer. He isn't physically violent unless his victims struggle. In fact, we believe he's rather small in stature and has honed the element of surprise in order to accomplish what he has," Hestia nodded to a man in the back of the room. "Forensics believes he had help in transporting the bodies, not to mention the coffins, from the city into the country. At the last site, they found tracks of an excavation machine. It - it took _time_ and _dedication_ for him to bury his victims. He works with his hands, and is incredibly intelligent - but he _must've_ had help. There's no way this was a one-man job."

With the scratch of his pen, Kingsley made a note in his file. Tom wondered if he ought to be taking notes too; but most of this, the perpetrator's homosexuality, in particular, he had already guessed in the dark of night when his mind teetered between exhaustion and epiphany.

"But however crass his methods are, he's . . . a kidnapper with morals," her tone was strained with cynicism. "A criminal by any means, but he has a seemingly altruistic agenda. Pairing 'soulmates'," she winced. "Like any matchmaking website, except more . . . hands on."

Tom fought from rolling his eyes at the analogy.

With that, Hestia closed her notebook and stared expectantly at the Detective Chief Inspector.

The man narrowed his dark eyes and leaned back to cross his arms, resolutely silent. There was a long, pregnant pause. A soft cough reverberated through the room. Papers rustled.

"Interesting theories," Kingsley sighed, eventually. His tone turned sharp, and Tom, secretly, was proud of the man. "But how does this _help us catch the bastard?!"_

* * *

In the dark shadow of a closet that was larger on the inside than it looked on the outside, a small tape recorder was rewinding.

A soft buzzing filled the room, seeping into the apartment, where a man was quietly attempting to cook a meal for two. The familiar sound wheedled at his already short patience, like a persistent bug or the whining of a child.

Whimpering at the noise, his shaggy-haired dog writhed, pawing at his ears. The dog was curled up on the ground beside the sink, settled on a clawed and torn kitchen mat.

"Oh, hush," he told the dog fondly, tossing him some ground beef. The dog devoured it ravenously, although his ears were still lowered in pain.

Leaning his head back in exasperation, the man turned off the burner and removed his ratty, stained _Kiss the Cook_ apron. Crossing in long strides into the master bedroom, carpet kissing the callouses of his feet, he knocked politely on the closet door. From within, the tape had begun to play softly, and he could just barely make out the words.

It took a moment for his partner to respond, distracted as she was. "Come in."

He pushed aside the folding doors and sudden light enveloped the secret room.

His partner was sitting in a desk chair, a tape recorder in her lap. She listened intently to an audio recording of two girls, one of them sobbing softly, the other trying in vain to reassure her.

"You keep playing that one," he told her gently, crouching down beside her. _This isn't healthy_ , he fought to add. She wouldn't appreciate it.

He noticed how she mouthed along. "Have you memorized every word?"

"Every single one," she turned the volume up. She tucked a piece of long hair behind her ear, tugging neurotically at her earlobe. "It's my favorite."

The recording was seventeen hours long, and while most of it was stark, echoing silence, with only the labored breathing of the two girls, she savored every second. "Listen."

Pausing it, she rewound the tape, the machine clicking. She pressed the small, faded play button, expression twisting to match the grief in their words.

 _"I love you, Luna. I've loved you for so long,"_ the woman said desperately, her voice crackling across the recording. The girl spoke loudly, and to their benefit - they could hear every word, every inflection. Her vulnerability surrounded them. Engulfed them.

It was these moments that they lived for. _"And if this is the last chance I get to say it - "_

 _"I love you too, Gin,"_ the softer-spoken girl said, trembling, traumatized. _"You're my very best friend."_

His partner rewound it once more. _"I love you too, Gin,"_ it repeated. _"I love you too, Gin."_

He reached over to halt her. "Stop. You're just going to hurt yourself. This obsession -"

"I'm not crazy," she told him sharply, the tension in the air rising to a crescendo.

He tilted his head at her, pitying, and clutched her hand. It was sweaty and small inside his own. "Repeating things over and over, expecting different results? Isn't that what crazy is?" it was an innocent question, but it must have hit too close to home.

"Right," she spat at him, spittle flying in the dark, hitting his face. He flinched back, dropping her hand as though it burned. "You would know all about that, no?" She gestured toward the walls. "You're the one with the secret murder room."

It was true.

The walls of the room were plastered with photos, taken discreetly from a camera - the best he could afford. Some of the pictures were blurry, but he could distinctly remember the subjects; everything about them, from their hair color to their height, to their habits and preferences. He had heard their deepest and darkest secrets, knew their foibles and idiosyncrasies.

He knew them intimately.

He had helped choose them, after all.

"I only keep this shit here for your sake," he swallowed tightly. "For your mental health."

The girl scoffed. "And for your masturbation fantasies," she shot back. That was a lie. Even as a teenager, he rarely indulged in self-gratification, and used to wonder if something was wrong with him. "Don't act so high-and-mighty."

Irritated, he tore his gaze from her, and instead lingered on the photos. He identified them each, counting them like sheep, to ease his stuttering heart.

Olive Hornby was a highly respected attorney that only drank coffee from her favorite chain store, three blocks from her office. She preferred it dark and bitter, likely reflecting her frankly bitchy personality. She was stern-faced, with a short pixie cut _(a strand of her hair was stored in a plastic baggie pinned to a cork-board)_ and wore the same color lipstick each day. Myrtle Warren was Olive's unfortunate barista, a nervous wreck with a streak for pettiness and a huge, gigantic crush on the woman who ignored her advances.

Gilderoy Lockhart bought his hair-dye online and couldn't tell the difference between men's and woman's perfume. He smelt of lavender when they had liberated him, and he was so _very_ easy to subdue. Mundungus, even easier. Fletcher had been a homeless man, a veteran, a thief, who was as greedy for money as he was for heroin. Lockhart fit the bill just fine.

Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald were old lovers, spurned and despised. Yet every morning, they each prepared a second cup of tea to the other's specifications, simply by habit. He had such high hopes for them.

Lastly, but certainly not least, he couldn't forget Luna Lovegood and Ginny Weasley. The couple had been their first, and his partner's favorite.

He felt a tug on his sleeve. "Don't ignore me, love. You can't hide from me." She paused. "I know who _your_ favorite is," she sang, pushing out of the chair. She approached a small desk.

Strewn across the tabletop was a large map, dollar store stickers of golden stars marking spots in the middle of uninhabited fields. The perfect place to hide a body, or two. She pulled open a drawer where they kept the other tapes.

"One of these things is not like the other. One, two . . . a third in the recorder. Where's the forth?" She peered up at him with wide brown eyes.

He swallowed, caught. "I - "

"Don't even bother. I read it fresh off the press this morning," she revealed, soft and cloying. Saccharine. A honey trap. _"Grindelwald, arrested for murdering his fellow victim of_ 'The Matchmaker' _._ Cute name, isn't it? I'll be sure to thank Rita Skeeter, the wench, for coming up with it."

His eyes slipped shut.

 _'The Matchmaker'._

A term the news had so lovingly dubbed him, noticing the way he paired individuals that oftentimes rose from the coffin deeply in love.

They _noticed_ but they never _saw_.

His partner continued, quoting the paper from memory. She always had a frightful memory. _"_ _Preceding the arrest, an anonymous audio recording was sent to the police, revealing undeniable proof that Grindelwald had killed his partner, Albus Dumbledore within the coffin."_ She finished, eyes flashing like embers. "Where do you think they might've found that 'audio recording', hm? _I_ certainly didn't tell them."

"You should've," he said without thinking. "It was the right thing to do."

She gave him guileless, triumphant smirk, and tsked. "Your morals are showing, love."

Stepping back toward the door, he knew not to be fooled by her fond endearments. She didn't love him. She only loved one person, and that love was more of a sick infatuation.

"But it was," he said, voice unsteady. "Gellert _smothered_ Albus, and when the police arrived - he claimed Albus had a stroke. He lied!It wasn't right. We - " he shuddered. "We're not killers. It was _not our fault!"_ his tone hit a shattering pitch.

"It _was_ , though," she reminded him harshly. " _We're_ the ones who trapped them together. _We're_ the ones who selected them, knowing full well how they felt for one another. We should've known how they'd react." She wagged a slim finger at him, the nail blunt. "After all, there is a very slim line between love and hate."

 _You're one to lecture,_ he wanted to snap.

Instead, he sucked in a deep breath, tampering down the rising anger. It wouldn't do to irritate her. Their partnership - if you could call it that - was rocky enough.

"I couldn't let him go free. He's - he's a psychopath."

"Like us, you mean."

"No," he said, vehement. "No, we don't _kill_ anyone. We just - "

She arched a brow. " _Traumatize_ our victims? Bury them alive? Disappoint our parents?" she asked lightly. He flinched. "What we do is far worse. It's torture, and _I_ can accept that because I couldn't _fucking care less_ about these vermin _,"_ she hissed, pointing at collage. "You're the one at fault.

"Remind me, who chose our victims? Who watched them for days on end, carefully manipulating every variable, _pretending_ he had good intentions when he shoved their unconscious bodies into the coffin? I'm not stupid. I'm not blind. The problem is, _you_ don't seem to realize the implications of all this."

He made a wounded noise. "I _do_ -"

She cut off his protests, uncaring. "I _know_ you, remember? You're as insane as me, just a _different_ kind of crazy." Her hand slammed into the tabletop. "Up until now, you thought this was just some silly little matchmaking game, with no consequences. You're antisocial and lonely. You thought that you could live vicariously through others and - _somehow_ \- achieve the connection you're lacking? How has that worked out for you, huh?" She didn't wait for him to respond. "You got sloppy, and one of your chess pieces revolted. It doesn't matter who held his hand to Dumbledore's mouth and smothered him to death. _W_ _e're_ the bad guys. _We_ drove Grindelwald to kill his match. If it wasn't for _you,_ that man wouldn't be _dead!_ "

He wasn't - She was wrong about him. He wasn't ignorant to his crimes. Oftentimes, guilt overwhelmed him, but he always justified his actions. He wasn't a killer. He never hurt anyone. _Never_.

He didn't know why he stayed when he knew damn well she would throw him under the bus when the time came.

It was only a matter of _when._

And damn, if he didn't deserve it.

It had been her idea at first, but _he_ was the one who hand-selected each victim and orchestrated their kidnappings. He may have started this for her, but he continued because he _saw_ the loneliness in the world, he _saw_ his victims for who they were and tried to show them that they didn't have to be alone.

Like he was.

He clawed a hand over his features. She couldn't see him cry.

"The police won't _thank_ you for turning Grindelwald in," she continued, voice dripping with derision. "They think you're playing a game. Mind-fucking them, drawing them into your trap," she spoke bluntly, each word clawing at his chest, leaving burning trails of shame. "And your 'good intentions' are going to lead them straight to us."

"I - " He sounded strangled. "I won't. I wiped the tape clean of fingerprints, I dropped it off anonymously and –" She blinked at him, unimpressed. His jaw snapped shut. He licked his lips. "I – I swear to you. This'll be my last pair. I've got the _perfect_ finale."

He gestured to the most recent set of photographs, showing a tall, dark-haired man with his head bent over a cell phone.

The image was out of focus and blurred; his hands had been shaking when he took it, the thrill of the hunt rendering him nearly incapable. The photo was well-loved, caressed and cared for like a precious child. If this was to be his last victim, it would damn well be his best.

"I promise. We can stop after this." He vowed, clenching a hand to his heart, the organ beating a tattoo against his ribs.

( _He felt hollow, sometimes, and it was nice to have proof in the negative.)_

He waited several beats for her response, hope flooding him as it did every time, that perhaps this time she would _approve_ -

His partner snorted. That hope shattered. "You're like an addict," she murmured.

Bored of him, she returned back to her tapes, ready to embroil herself in her _beloved_ recording. Pressing play, she closed her eyes to the sound of Luna's sobs. The sound didn't comfort him like it comforted her. It made him feel worse.

Her dismissal came out in a single breath, as though he wasn't worth even an ounce of her focus. "I'm not hungry. Give my plate to the dog."

* * *

 ** _ONE FOOT IN THE GRAVE_**

The headline blared.

 ** _By Rita Skeeter_**

A recent picture of the famed author Gilderoy Lockhart grinned up at the Detective Chief Inspector. It was charmingly captioned _The Lockhart-Fletcher Wedding;_ Lockhart's tan hand was curled around the elbow of his husband, a stout, bald man with a toothy grin and dilated pupils.

Tom recognized Lockhart from various galas, the imprint of Lockhart's hideous lavender tuxedos burned into his memory. His fingers curled around the newspaper, his mouth twisting in a disgusted sneer.

 _The 'Matchmaker', for all that we know of this elusive serial kidnapper, must fancy himself Cupid._ _His_ modus operandi _consists of pairing two same-sex individuals in a coffin six feet underground with only an air tube to ascertain their survival. But however crass his methods are - burying his matches alive - the Matchmaker's intentions are not to harm, but to help._

 _The proof is in the pudding._

 _Gilderoy Lockhart, famous fiction author and four-time winner of Woman Weekly's 'Most Charming Bachelor' award, has recently tied the knot with his fellow 'match', Michael 'Mundungus' Fletcher. (Shown in the picture above.)_

 _The two men were essentially strangers when they woke, trapped together in a handmade casket; they knew each other in passing, as Lockhart volunteered at a homeless shelter Fletcher frequented._

 _Resigned to their fates, the men began talking, and the two opposites learned more about each other on the brink of death than they ever had a chance to in the world of the living._

 _Two other such couples include partners Ginevra Weasley and Luna Lovegood, as well as renown lawyer Olive Hornby and barista Myrtle Warren. Readers might be happy to learn Hornby and Warren have now entered a romantic relationship, and the Weasley-Lovegood couple is closer than ever._

 _Unfortunately, not all the Matchmaker's couples were meant to be._

 _Although the Department of Law Enforcement has given little information on the subject, an inside source claims that it's an anonymous tip that leads first responders to the victims._

 _Here at the_ Daily Prophet, _we've come to the incredible assumption that the 'anonymous tip' is in fact_ _sent by the kidnapper himself. Whether out of guilt or some other unknowable motivation, the victims are often thankful for his mercy._

 _Nearly all the couples have survived the experience unscathed, barring a tragic incident that occurred last month._ _Gellert Grindelwald and Albus Dumbledore were former lovers, torn apart by different career paths. The Matchmaker likely intended for a glorious, passionate reunion, but instead - when the police arrived on scene - only one man rose from the grave._

 _Grindelwald went on record claiming Albus had suffered from a stroke. However, evidence in the contrary was soon brought to life as an 'anonymous' package was delivered to the Department of Law Enforcement. It was an audio recording of their time in the coffin, from start to finish, revealing undeniable proof that Grindelwald had killed his partner, Albus Dumbledore while inside._

 _In court, he admitted that he was unaware of the air tube and was concerned about the limited air supply. Charged with voluntary manslaughter, the Grindelwald case was quickly wrapped up._

 _However, some questions remain. Who was in possession of this recording? Logic states that only three men could possibly know what had occurred in the coffin; one of them guilty of murder, the other dead, and the last, their kidnapper._

 _Our inside source states the DLE are considering him a kidnapper with morals. A novel thought. While the DLE continues their investigation without offcial comment, th_ _e public is left to wonder; is the Matchmaker truly a vicious criminal, intent on causing anguish and hurt? Or are they merely a lonely, lovelorn individual intent on bringing people together?_

Tom slid his expression into one of anger and concern. He lowered the paper, handing it back to Detective Constable Kingsley. The man was watching Tom carefully, dark eyes sharp, as if waiting for a reaction.

Tom cleared his throat. "What an incredibly fluffy piece," he drawled. "Rita always has written such lovely prose."

Compulsively, he straightened a pencil on his desk. Everything was methodically in its place; papers stacked in neat piles, his computer keyboard recently wiped, the large desk glossy. The walls were a light blue, conducive to concentration, the office decorated sparsely. There were no personal attachments, framed photographs or baubles; he had a strict belief that business and pleasure remained separate.

 _(Although, safely hidden within several sub-folders on his computer, he had a roll of ten or so pictures of him and his mother, back when he was a naive rookie. Back when Merope had color in her cheeks and was able to walk without the help of a wheelchair.)_

"In this, Skeeter is correct," Kingsley padded at his forehead with an already moist handkerchief. "Rather on the nose with most of her assumptions, really." He slumped in his seat across from Tom and nodded toward the silver tea tray. "Fix me a cup of tea, will you?"

Kingsley was a large, dark man who preferred diplomacy to brute force, which is the sole reason Tom tolerated him. The man had a sense of humor Tom could appreciate, although it could occasionally slip into a rudeness Tom was quick to correct. With deep-set eyes and a voice that calmed all those around him, Kingsley was the dedicated, earnest face of the DLE. Tom despised company functions, and often sent Kingsley in his stead, preferring to lock himself in his office with a stack of files and a fresh pot of tea to last the night.

Reaching toward the silver tea tray sitting at the corner of his desk, Tom poured a cup and plopped in two cubes of sugar. Just the way Kingsley liked it. They weren't friends by any means but had worked side-by-side long enough to be familiar with each other's quirks and habits.

Kingsley took the cup with a nod of gratitude. Tom's fingers twitched, tapping his spoon against the rim of his own cup. He took a sip and swallowed. It burned the whole way down.

"What worries me is Rita's supposed 'inside source'. The public wasn't made aware of the anonymous tips. Do we have a mole in our ranks?" _Who am I going to have to brutally fire today?_ was his unspoken question.

"That's what I want to know," Kingsley grimaced. "If not a mole, how else would Skeeter be so damn _good_ at analyzing this son of a bitch? It took months for our best profilers to dismiss the first burial as a hate crime and realize our man is a repressed homosexual, himself. She quoted the briefing almost word for word."

Tom nodded, considerate. "Speaking of. There was a point Hestia made that I would like to run by you once more. She called the unsub's motive . . . a 'match-making service.' But that is so incredibly banal, I have a hard time to believe a criminal of this caliber would have such clichéd inspiration."

Pushing his cup away, Tom brought up a file on his computer. It held a series of photographs taken at the most recent crime scene; fields of serene and photogenic flowers. At first glance, it resembled a stock photo – until you looked closer.

Crime scene markers littered the grass, pointing out splintered wood and nails. Amidst the foliage was a plastic air-tube, flimsier than a child's bathtub snorkeling device, sticking out from the ground.

He zoomed in on another photograph of bent, broken wires; a recording device, placed inside the lid of each coffin, for the Matchmaker's listening pleasure.

Tom sucked in a breath, almost awe-struck. "By burying them alive, he makes his victims _flirt_ with death, but he eventually frees them. Or, allows the police to free them, at least. Once they meet his expectations."

"Is this an - obsession with control? With playing God?" Kingsley asked.

"Perhaps," Tom allowed. "But what _I_ want to know, is what's the catalyst?" he mused aloud. "What's the trigger? _Something_ makes him free the victims - there doesn't seem to be a discernable pattern. His first victims were underground for seventeen hours, the longest yet. The others were noticeably smaller, with Lockhart and Fletcher being underground for only twelve."

Kingsley shook his bald head, the gleam of the overhead light reflecting off his scalp. "Our interviews with the victims have raised no correlations. They have no concept of time when they're under, so as far as we know, he's only satisfied when they confess an urge to piss," he paused, the joke falling flat. "When we received the anonymous call for Grindelwald and Dumbledore, the latter had already been dead for an hour. Clearly, life and death situations do not irk our unsub."

"Or, perhaps he was letting the killer _stew_ ," Tom said, forming the words with a tinge of vindictiveness. "Prolonging Grindelwald's torture."

"It must have been quite the shock, to see one of his chess pieces revolting _."_

Tom shook his head. "The Matchmaker is no mastermind. He has a pattern, we know that much. His victims are not random. They're at the very least acquaintances, if not the best of friends. It's not much of a hardship to spend your last few hours with your favorite person," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Unless that was intentional. The first victims -"

"Are just that," Kingsley said gently. "Victims. The poor Lovegood girl was so distraught when we found them."

"And the Weasley girl?"

"She just seemed irritated by the whole matter," he waved a hand. "I know her father well; the entire Weasley clan are prideful. With six brothers, she would hardly admit to being scared or traumatized."

Tom hummed, bored, and let the matter settle. "Any progress on the Grindelwald tape?"

Kingsley shook his head. "After forensics proved it's verity, we played the tape to Grindelwald in court - he succumbed almost immediately, admitting to everything. The tape seemed to match up with his confession."

"I assume they dusted it for fingerprints, as well?" Tom asked. "Skin cells, dust particulates?"

"It was wiped down," Kingsley _so_ hated to be the bearer of bad news. "Not a single fingerprint, not even on the envelope. We tested for saliva, but – it was no good. The Matchmaker was very efficient. But he has to slip up _sometime._ " Kingsley's lips pressed together. "Sometimes, I think he's playing with us. Other times, I wonder . . . if we give him the chance, do you think he'll turn himself in?"

"He's in too deep now, Kingsley," Tom said, certain. "It's an addiction, but like any addiction, he's grown an immunity to it. His last fix was botched. He'll continue taking one step further, and further, until . . . perhaps, one day, we'll find _him_ in the grave. He's already proved to be voyeuristic - perturbed in the mind. He'll want to inject himself into the case and experience it for himself. If he hasn't already," His voice had petered into a faint murmur.

Kingsley was accustomed to being used as a sounding board, but the silence was unnerving. He clenched the armrests, frowning.

"Not to mention, with Rita Skeeter feeding at his ego, he must be pretty confident," Kingsley added, just for something to say. "She certainly seems intent on making our man a bloodypublic hero. _'Perhaps he'll_ 'match' _you with your soulmate . . . or your killer.'_ " He mocked, taking on Skeeter's notoriously high, saccharine voice. "What a cunt."

Tom arched a brow at the man's abrasiveness. "Watch your language, Kingsley."

The detective quickly grimaced. "Apologies." They worked on the force together for over a decade; sometimes, he forgot Tom was his superior.

Kingsley decided to change the subject.

"Perhaps we're thinking too hard on the topic." He hoped to segue the conversation to the force's weekly gathering at a nearby tavern; Tom rarely attended them, but Tonks down in missing persons made a hefty wager that Kingsley couldn't convince the man.

Nearly everyone down at the precinct was terrified of Tom. He was alarmingly disciplined, instinctive and sharp, which made him an excellent officer but just _terrible_ at socializing.

In their younger years, Tom and Kingsley were both rookies under the old Detective Chief Inspector Scrimgeour, a man lovingly nicknamed 'the Lion King', for his bristly golden hair and the scar across his right eye.

Back then, Tom was the most handsome lad in the precinct, charismatic and sweet to old women and young children alike. He had sharp, perceptive blue eyes and aristocratic features that endeared him to the upper-class folk. It had been a shock to learn he'd been raised by a single mother in a one-bedroom apartment – especially when Kingsley had placed money on Tom being a lost member of the Royal family.

Tom had been set to take Scrimgeour's position at the young age of thirty when his beloved mother had been struck ill with a debilitating disease. Tom took the promotion and the fattened paycheck with grace, but he became far more reserved, talking less and working more, stringently demanding that his underlings do the same.

Of course, what was that saying? _When the cat's away, the mice will play._

With Tom holed away in his office more often than not, and Kingsley known as an incredibly laid-back second-in-command, gossip tended to fly.

 _Tom was a bachelor - or was he?_

 _Was Tom as good with his cock as he was with a gun?_ (This one, of course, was not a line of questioning Kingsley encouraged.)

 _What would Tom look like with his hair down, three sheets to the wind? Would he be just as mean, if not meaner? Would he be a blabbermouth, or was he a lightweight?_

Kingsley was unable to stop his devious smirk. Tonight, he hoped, they would find out. He leaned forward on his elbows. "Say, Tom - "

Tom ignored him, talking over Kingsley with a contemplative drawl. " _Hopefully_ ," he said loudly, recognizing Kingsley's wheedling tone. "The Matchmaker will be on a hiatus after inadvertently killing one of his 'matches'. Or," Tom mused quietly, looking closer at his computer screen, fingers flying across the keys as he wrote out his observations. "He'll only be more determined. He'll find another couple with more chemistry - or less bad history . . ."

Kingsley sighed, a bit desperate. "Rita Skeeter will have a field day proving to the world that 'not all bad guys are bad'."

Tom hummed in agreement. "Sometimes, I wonder if Skeeter's priming the media to accept _her_ when it comes to light all the crime scenes she's broken into and the officers she's bribed."

Kingsley gave a reluctant laugh, almost fond of the man's single-minded concentration. He resisted the urge to poke the wrinkle growing between Tom's brows."Hey, the story sells."

The office was quiet, with only the soft clicking of a clock marking the time passing. Kingsley had the feeling his presence was no longer required, but he had a goal, damn it.

Kingsley cleared his throat. "Well, that was certainly enlightening. To be honest, I feel we're only going around in circles," Kingsley gestured with his teacup. He made his tone airy, suggestive. "Why don't we take this conversation over-time, eh? Come down to the _Leaky Cauldron_ for a pint, Tom. A few other officers will be there, we can all - er - _brainstorm_. More the merrier, you know?" he choked out another laugh, tired eyes watching the last drop of tea wobble at the bottom of his cup. "Misery loves company, don't you think?"

"Brainstorming _,"_ Tom repeated, fingers stalling. "Oh, is _that_ the slang recruits use for 'getting schnockered'?"

Dark eyes blinked in amazement. Kingsley couldn't believe he'd just heard Tom say 'schnockered'.

He smiled, sheepishly running a hand over his scalp. "Well, are you in or are you out? I don't ask for much, Tom. You need to get out of the office, be with your friends - or your _colleagues,_ at least,"he corrected. "Even the bloody Queen needs to take off her crown every so often." He glanced purposefully at Tom's badge, gleaming proudly at his lapel. Tom polished it every morning with a special lemon polish, and everyone knew it.

High cheekbones flushing, Tom cleared his throat. "I'll . . . I'll think about it," he said quickly, returning his gaze to his computer.

Kingsley waited for a second more, but he suspected that was the best affirmation he could get. He sighed, pushing away his chair.

"Alright, Tom," standing, he towered over the other man, tilting his head. "The _Leaky Cauldron,"_ Kingsley reminded gently because knowing Tom, the man had already deleted the information. "Five o'clock."

"Yes, yes," waving a strong, slim hand, Tom dismissed the deputy. "I will . . . " he paused as if the words physically hurt. "See you then."

Kingsley nodded, blank-faced. He left the office with rapid feet, and it was only when he reached the hall that he grinned, already removing his phone to send a quick text to Tonks.

 _'Drinks are on you, tonight!'_

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**


	2. The Honey Trap

****_The Matchmaker_****

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **II:**

 ** _The Honey Trap_**

Tonks watched with wide, impressed eyes as Detective Chief Inspector Riddle lifted his glass of whiskey and knocked it back with the ease and stamina of a college student. His Adam's apple bobbed and a dribble of sweat worked its way down his strong throat.

She leaned toward Hestia Jones, a profiler, who was already tipsy. "Is it me," Tonks asked in a low tone. "Or is Riddle suddenly, like, a lot hotter?"

Hestia giggled, tossing back a strand of her mousy brown hair. "Everyone looks a little different in the low light of a bar," she informed. "Hell, even Diggle is starting to look less like a dodgy fool, and more like he'd be a good lay." Dedalus was draped over the music box, animatedly telling a story to his mates.

His usually spiky, mad hair was tampered down by sweat. He'd removed his bottle-cap spectacles and had to squint to see, but it gave him a brooding, intense stare like he could peer right into you and -

Tonks blinked, staring down at her own drink. "Jesus Christ. This certainly works fast."

Hestia raised a glass to her. "Indeed, it does. This must be the good stuff." She'd know. Hestia was a self-proclaimed liqour 'connoisseur'; a kinder way of saying 'alcoholic'. "Props to you for paying tonight. What bet did you lose?" her eyes twinkled conspiratorially.

Grunting, Tonks wriggled on the stool, fixing her skirt. Due to company regulations, skirts had to be longer than the tips of her fingers when she hung her arms down. Sitting on the stool, however, her skirt had begun riding up, revealing the tops of her pantyhose and a slim strip of skin that her less subtle colleagues had begun to eye.

"I dared Kingsley to invite Tom tonight. I didn't think the King of Self-Imposed Isolation would actually _deign_ to bother with us common folk," she spoke in a hushed, mocking whisper and Hestia broke out in giggles.

Blue eyes flashed.

From his place at the bar, Tom shifted to block his view of the girls with a shoulder. This night was excruciating enough without overhearing two hens cluck about him.

Expression carefully absent of emotion, Tom broke his contained, stiff posture to flick two fingers. "Top me off, please. I don't think I'll be staying long," he murmured to the barmaid.

Tom wasn't typically a heavy drinker. He relied rather heavily on his inhibitions and the ability to remain in control of his facilities. Today was no exception; he had merely spoken to the barmaid when he first arrived and paid her extra to water down anything she served to Tom or his staff.

If Tonks was suddenly finding Dedalus Diggle attractive, it was likely a latent attraction she hadn't acknowledged until it was socially acceptable to do so. Or, if Hestia Jones - currently twittering like a drunkard - thought watered-down whiskey was 'the good stuff', it was because her concerned brother had been slowly, methodically replacing all her bottles of liquor with various sparkling juices for the past few months, weening her off the hard stuff. As for Diggle - well, the man had always been a bit of a douche.

Like a benevolent deity, Tom made it his _business_ to know secrets, and to keep them.

As he downed another glass, Tom eyed Kingsley in his periphery. They had sat with each other for a while, talking cases, until Kingsley had been taken aside by a dark-haired, red-lipped woman.

She was recently widowed, if the indent on her ring finger and the smudges of black makeup - carefully smeared beneath her doe eyes to give the impression of crying - were any indication.

 _Unlucky-in-love?_ Tom wondered.

The woman then laughed breathlessly and placed a sharply manicured hand on Kingsley's upper thigh.

Tom's eyes darkened. "I expected better from you, Kingsley," he murmured to himself, bottom lip brushing against the wet rim of his glass.

A serial bride. Married six, perhaps seven times. Much like a black widow spider, they sucked the life out of their mate before killing them - arranging _accidents_ for them, in this case - and consuming their corpse.

Tom didn't think she was a cannibal. No, cannibalism was so incredibly overdone in the media, and just plain messy. The lady was too fashionable for that. The way she eyed Kingsley's unattended drink made Tom itch for his handcuffs.

He closed his eyes, sucking in a deep breath. Justice was all well and good but he couldn't go arresting people willy-nilly for flirting with his co-worker. Even if she was practically prostituting herself.

"Alright, dear?" The barmaid asked him, clucking her tongue in concern.

"Absolutely fine," Tom said, giving a tight, blatantly false smile. She took the hint and flushed, bowing her head to finish drying a glass.

When he glanced back at his second-in-command, Kingsley was alone, a frown on his ruddy features. The lady had been turned off by his career, it seemed. Kingsley simply wasn't paid enough for her tastes, and the realization she was surrounded by off-the-clock cops had her fleeing the establishment, as any part-way intelligent criminal would.

Tom sighed, his handcuffs sitting unused in his coat pocket.

Another one bites the dust, then.

He was almost expecting it when Kingsley returned to his side, despondently ordering a lager. "No luck?" Tom guessed, lips twisting around the phrase. He guessed it was something a sympathetic 'mate' would say, although he had few 'mates' of his own.

"Not a lick of it," Kingsley agreed glumly, before noticing the pile of shot glasses in front of Tom. He perked up. "Having any fun?"

Tom fought the urge to repeat 'not a lick of it', instead forcing a bit of cheer into his tone. "Some."

"Good," Kinglsey rumbled, clapping Tom on the back. If he was a younger man, he might have lurched forward, but Tom was accustomed to Kingsley's blustering manner. "I'm glad. See, getting out with your friends isn't the end of the world, is it?"

Tom had a few things he could say on that subject, but didn't get the chance as a song suddenly blared through the nickelodeon. Half of Tom's employees suddenly sat up in their chairs, cheeks splitting into wide grins.

"Oh, I love this song!" Tonks loudly exclaimed, stumbling towards Kingsley. She thrust out a hand, waggling her brows. "Come dance with us, boss-man!"

Tom's lips lowered into a deep frown.

 _He_ was their boss, not Kingsley.

 _It wasn't as though Tom_ wanted _to dance_ , he quickly told himself. _No. Absolutely not._ _It was completely unprofessional, not to mention_ humiliating _. Even Kingsley wouldn't -_

Laughing, Kingsley slammed down his drink and joined the throng of half-drunk patrons, shoving aside tables and bobbing along aimlessly to the music.

 _Apparently, Kingsley would._

Tom didn't recognize the song. It had some throbbing, pulsating tempo that, frankly, gave him the beginnings of a headache.

Left alone at the bar, Tom took the chance to dip out. Just as he was about to leave, placing a few notes on the counter as a tip to their barmaid - she had been quiet and attentive, didn't bother him much with chatter, and took bribes easily - he stopped. And sighed.

Uncomfortably warm, Tom breached the crowd in an attempt to find Shacklebolt. He pushed past two women grinding against each other and past Hestia Jones, who was climbing Diggle like a tree. He found Kinglsey in the midst of it all. His bald head glistened with sweat, huge feet stomping heavily against the ground.

Tom flinched as the crowd chanted, off-tune and off-beat, with the song's chorus.

"I'm leaving," he told Kingsley, quite sternly, as though his discomfort was all the other's man's fault. (It was.)

Kingsley ignored him, eyes shut. Tom pushed back his sleeves, anger growing as someone bumped into his elbow. Glaring, Tom pinched Kingsley on the arm. Hard.

"What?" Kingsley asked, shouting over the music.

"I'm leaving," Tom repeated. "My mother needs me."

Shacklebolt seemed ready to protest, but 'mother' was the magic word. He reluctantly nodded, pulling his shirt from Tom's grip. "Thanks for coming," he offered. "Tonks, another round?"

Tom's nostrils flared at the easy dismissal.

He shoved his way out of the bar, the door slamming shut behind him.

The night was utterly, graciously silent. Mist hung in the air, an indication of rain to come. He lifted his collar as a barricade against the cool air. This part of London was foggy at night, the air brisk and carrying with it the smell of sewage.

 _Ah_. Home.

Trudging his way towards the street, where Tom hoped to catch a cab, his head lifted at the sound of distant crying.

Without thought, his hand darted for his taser gun. Tom swore.

He'd left it at the office, hoping for a quick drink and then home to his mother. He was out later than he'd expected, but he had called his mother's nurse, Poppy, to make dinner, administer Merope's medication, and then put her to bed. The kind woman, who he'd known since his mother had first become sick, had been happy to do it. She was simply glad that Tom was actually _out_ on a Friday night. It was very uncharacteristic of him, and now Tom remembered _why._

He attracted trouble where ever he went.

Another moan came from the alleyway.

Walking on the pads of his feet, he crept into the alley. Only a sliver of moonlight was visible, reflecting over a supine rubbish bin. Expecting a wounded cat - or, worse - a homeless child, he was mildly surprised to find a woman.

She was curled up against the grimy wall, head bowed over her lap as she quietly sobbed. In the darkness, he couldn't discern her hair color, or the style of her clothing - just her shape. Tom took a misstep, foot crushing a stray food wrapper. Her head jerked up, and Tom - seeing her face, mottled, bruised and stained with dirt - immediately fixed his posture. He slouched, becoming shorter, unassuming. Tom raised his empty hands, showing he was unarmed.

The girl stared at him with wide, bright eyes, and Tom could see the vague imprint of freckles scattered across her nose.

"Hello," he said softly, taking a tentative step forward. She didn't flinch away; instead, her head raised imperceptibly, hands curling in her lap. "My name is Detective Chief Inspector Riddle. I'm with the Department of Law Enforcement - I can help you," he paused. "Would you like to see my badge?"

She maintained her unblinking, watery stare, and he took that as a 'yes'. Slowly reaching for his jacket pocket, Tom glanced down for only a moment - and she lunged.

From her lap, she removed a clean, damp rag. Tom jerked back, tripping over the rubbish bin. She landed on him, slim and as swift as a wild-cat, baring her teeth. Tom's instincts kicked into action, and he made to roll them over, flipping their positions. But he was already too late.

He registered a wet cloth over his mouth, the chemical odorless. A slow-acting heaviness began spreading through his limbs, a deep exhaustion. Tom panted heavily, fumbling desperately in the dark for - _anything._ A weapon. His handcuffs. His phone. But then, who would he call?

Tom was the head of the police, and most of his force was down at _The Leaky Cauldron,_ having a grand, merry ol' time. He was alone. Utterly alone.

"Not for long."

Apparently, Tom had spoken aloud, words muffled by the choloroform-soaked rag. The girl above him smiled wickedly. Up close, he could see the powder of her make-up, her bruise false, the edges fading away irregularly. He'd been tricked.

"Smart one, aren't you?" she hummed at him, her figure blurring in and out of focus, like a hologram, or watery reflection. She breathed against his neck, warm and smelling of dirt, sweat, and - faintly - something feminine. Sweet. Her hand slipped from his mouth.

"Fuck . . . you . . . " Tom's eyes fluttered shut.

"Oh," she purred, pleased with his fight. "He'll _like_ you."

* * *

 _Slug and Jiggers_ was a fairly old apothecary on the north end of a colorful, brightly lit shopping district.

It was decorated lavishly with sleek leather chairs and a mahogany counter where the shopkeeper, Horace Slughorn, conducted business.

Slughorn was a hedonistic man that sought aesthetic pleasure in all corners of his life.

This was made evident by his portly stature and expensive leather uniform, hand-tailored to his dimensions. His apron was made of rich alligator leather, made to withstand wear and tear and innumerable stains. He wore a pair of ugly, tight-fitting chaps and boots that reached his knees. Thigh fat bubbled over his boots, and many people, his apprentice included, suspected he simply couldn't _reach_ to unlace the boots. This would explain why he wore them constantly. At least they were of good quality.

Donned in his hideous costume, Slughorn ambled down the street, his work-bag dangling at his side.

Slughorn gave a pleasant wave to the neighboring shopkeepers who had arrived early to open up shop. Slughorn had the forethought to hire an apprentice to open for him; this meant most days, he could sleep in, or have the time to make a hearty breakfast. Unbeknownst to him, Slughorn had a speck of egg on his face from his morning omelet.

The other shop owners gave him grimace-like smiles, the undertone of derision going right over his head.

"Oh ho! Good day, Madam Malkin," he beamed at the seamstress, blatantly eyeing the bent-over form of Malkin's assistant as she swept the front steps.

Malkin sighed, giving him a weak smile. She ushered her assistant away, giving the poor girl a break from Slughorn's ogling. "Good morning, Horace. How was your Friday evening?"

"Delightful," Slughorn blustered, swaying back and forth on his feet. He stood on the curb, a cobblestone street between them. Malkin desperately hoped he didn't take the initiative to cross the street and approach her. There was only so much small talk she could manage this morning. "I spent the evening drinking a cup of fine brandy and reading a dissertation on _Essential Oils_ in front of the hearth. Quite delightful, hmm, yes."

Blandly, Malkin smiled. "That's wonderful, Horace. Oh - I think that's Brenda calling for me now," she tilted her head toward the door. "We've just gotten a new shipment of - um. Fabric," she didn't bother finishing the sentence. "Excuse me."

Slughorn raised a hand, opening his mouth to say farewell. The door slammed shut behind her, the bell jangling.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Slughorn fixed his shirt and continued toward his shop.

He expected to hear the soft hum of classical music drifting through open windows - open, in order to air out the faint smell of rotten eggs that persisted no matter how often they cleaned the shop. But all was silent.

His apprentice was usually an early bird, waking at the crack of dawn to ready the shop. Young Harry Potter had been hired solely on the basis of nepotism, as Slughorn was an old family friend. Yet, Slughorn had been pleasantly surprised to find the boy incredibly capable.

Harry was an industrious lad, good with the ledgers and - truthfully - a bit of eye candy for his customers.

Although his untamable hairstyle left something to be desired, he was an excellent salesman, with wide, green, trustworthy eyes and a sharp tongue hidden behind pink lips, perfect for persuasion.

Then there was that nasty business with one of their patrons, following Harry around after hours, attempting to woo the boy into sharing her bed. She had even gone so far as to buy an aphrodisiac from _Slug and Jiggers_ and slyly slip them into a box of chocolates.

The boy wasn't an idiot, and he thankfully had a very sharp nose. The girl had been arrested for stalking and attempted rape, and Slughorn lessened Harry's workload by having him work in backroom, instead of at the counter.

During the days, Harry organized the shelves, kept track of their inventory and ordered new shipments. On the side, Harry might also . . . file all of Slughorn's tax forms.

The boy's mathematics skills were, Slughorn noted with a touch of shame, leagues above his own; the lad couldn't drive stick shift, but he could do advanced calculus? What _were_ they teaching in schools these days?

Perhaps Slughorn had become _too_ used to having all the grunt work done for him. He hadn't even brought a key to open shop himself, trusting his apprentice explicitly with the duty.

When he arrived at _Slug and Jiggers,_ it was with heart-stopping surprise that he learned the shop was closed. The blinds were lowered, and the outdoor plants left un-watered. "Oh - that boy," Slughorn clucked his tongue, a furrow of confusion denting his fluffy brow. Perhaps the boy was planning a surprise party? No, Slughorn's birthday wasn't until the twenty-eighth of April, which had already passed. Patting his pockets to ensure he had, in fact, forgotten his own keys, Slughorn sighed.

With a grunt, he lowered himself to his knees, chaps brushing against the rough cobblestone stairs. He fondled between the thick leaves of his potted lily bush, seeking out their spare key. Finding the small key caked with dirt, he painfully stood back up, bones groaning. "I'm getting too old for this," he told the key. Brushing away the dirt, he slotted the key into the lock and opened up shop.

"Harry?" he called tentatively into the dark. He flicked on the lights, peering inside with a quirked brow. Although it was clear the shop was abandoned, Slughorn has never been described as a smart man. "Are you in here, lad?" He checked every room for a sign of displacement.

The storeroom was a large, cold space with shelves of gleaming bottles and ceramic pots of paste. Across the hall from the storeroom was the office, not much bigger than a closet. A simple wooden desk and two chairs were tucked beside a small window, a neat stack of files placed on the corner of the desk.

Not a soul was to be found.

Slughorn's lips turned into a frown. "Well," he blustered, standing straight. He had to take a moment to find the broom, as Harry had an organization system that was baffling to the mind. With great reluctance, he began to sweep the floor of the shop, already weary.

"This'll just have to be docked from his pay, then. Can't have a lazy apprentice, no _sir-_ "

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**


	3. The Waking Dream

****_The Matchmaker_****

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **III:**

 ** _The Waking Dream_**

It was warm, and it was dark when Tom awoke. He'd been having a quite disturbing dream, in which Dedalus Diggle was almost attractive and a red-lipped spider was devouring Kingsley's body whole.

He blinked rapidly, eyelids heavy.

Tom let out a muffled groan. He was sore all over.

What had he been drinking last night?

Eyesight adjusting to the darkness, Tom realized he wasn't in bed, wasn't asleep at his desk, or even in a hospital room. He was . . . trapped.

Alarm set in.

Tom slammed his hands against the wooden lid above him, air filling his lungs in quick, frantic pants. The entire right side of his body brushed against something soft, something _alive._ He gasped out loud.

He wasn't alone.

Swallowing tightly, Tom took several, calming breaths, before he realized - they might have a limited air supply. Stretching his toes, Tom began to mentally compute the exact dimensions of the coffin, and from there, he could determine how much air -

 _Wait_. He closed his eyes, lashes tangling, and tried to remember. Tom tried to get the facts straight. He was - he was in a coffin. He wasn't alone. The only likely scenario was . . . "The _Matchmaker_ ," he hissed.

He knew the Matchmaker inside and out, from his motive to his _modus operandi._ God willing, if this wasn't a copycat, there would be an air tube.

The Matchmaker wasn't in the business of killing. Simply . . . _containing._

"Pull yourself together, Riddle," he whispered furiously to himself. "And find the damn tube."

With that, Tom raised his arms and began to feel for weak spots in the coffin, for a hole or crack. He worked every inch of what he could reach and made a sharp, hissing sound when his finger caught against a splinter. He stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked at the spots of blood. The noise slowly roused the other victim, who shifted uncomfortably. Tom stilled.

From what Tom could see in the darkness, the other victim - other _match -_ was smaller in stature. Younger, he assumed. Thankfully, the coffin was large enough to fit two bodies.

A dark, tousled head turned toward Tom, a strand of pitch-black hair falling into dazed green eyes. The man woke slowly, and then all at once, dazed eyes darting around. His lips parted, the skin chapped and pink.

"Wha -?"

"Good, you're awake," Tom spoke fast and sharp. He had bigger problems than a panicking coffin-mate. "I could use another set of hands."

The boy made a faint noise of confusion. "What? Who - who are you?"

"Introductions can come later, once we get _out_ of this place," Tom growled, shoving against the lid. He took a deep breath and tried to explain as succinctly as possible. "I suspect we've been buried alive by the Matchmaker. He's a serial kidnapper who - "

"Yeah," the man rasped out, blinking rapidly. "I've heard of him. We're - buried alive?"

"Don't ask obvious questions," Tom snapped. Watching those eyes - far too close for comfort - dilate with fear, confusion, hurt, Tom tore his gaze away. "Don't worry, it's not meant to be fatal."

"Well - " the man gave a watery, hysterical laugh, slamming his hands against the lid. "That's not much of a relief, is it? How do we get out?"

"First things first, it's too dark in here. I can't see anything. Turn out your pockets for anything useful," Tom demanded.

"Alright, alright, no need to be an arse," Experimentally, the man patted himself down, oddly obedient for someone who had just awoken six feet underground with a stranger. Most people would be suffering a panic attack or perhaps already be sobbing. The man seemed coherent, and his breathing was even - either shock had yet to hit, or the man was good in high-stress situations.

"I think I still have my phone, but I can't reach it. It's -" the man halted, cheeks coloring. "It's on my left side. What's in yours?"

"Handcuffs. Not that they're any use now."

A dark brow was raised. "Kinky."

Tom's lips part in annoyance. _Great_. He was trapped with someone who fancied himself a _jokester._ Tom lifted his chin, resolute. "My handcuffs are _not_ to be used for _anything_ other than their intended purpose. Please don't disparage them in that manner," he paused. With forced politeness, he continued: "I'd like to see if I can grab your phone. May I?"

The man laughed again, breathy and unhinged. "Might as well. Be my guest."

Touching as little of the man as possible, Tom found the edge of his sweater and trailed his fingers downward. The man squirmed slightly. "Ticklish," he whispered, breath warm against Tom's collarbone. Tom could feel the heat between their bodies and moved faster. Finally, he met a phone-shaped bulge in the man's trousers and began to slowly wiggle it out. They both let out a breath of relief.

"There." He flicked a button on the side, and the screen lit up, burning their eyes. It showed a background image of a fairly cute little boy; face freckled, a dimple in his cheek, his hair dyed an alarming shade of turquoise. Tom's eyes flicked upward. "No signal. Damn." But the battery was mostly charged, a blessing.

"There's a torchlight app," the man offered, reaching to tap the screen. "Just - there."

A beam erupted from the backlight, a circle of wood and nails suddenly visible.

From the corner of his eye, Tom inspected his companion; the man - correction, _boy -_ was slim, dark-haired and younger than Tom had expected. His voice had been ageless and epicene, and his face still soft with youthfulness.

He was attractive, Tom noted distantly.

The boy's eyes were even brighter now, reflecting the phone light. Tom was struck by the shifting hues, the acidic green darkening as their situation dawned. Tom tore his gaze from the other man's. Now was _not_ the time to memorize every speck of color in the stranger's irises.

"Right," Tom cleared his throat. "Check your side of the casket for a hole or crack, large enough to fit an air tube."

The boy hesitated, clearly doubtful, but nodded. Without speaking, they pushed and prodded the box's corners. The boy's brow furrowed in concentration.

"I - " after a moment, the boy spoke. "I think I found something. A hole. There's a plastic pipe inside - "

"Don't touch it!" Tom snapped. The boy flinched back, hands raised in consolation. "It's supplying us air. If it falls out of place or fills with dirt, then we most definitely _will_ die." Before the boy could register that declaration, Tom continued, lecturing like a teacher; no-nonsense, barely allowing a pause for his student to catch up.

"From my approximations - I've researched this extensively - the average coffin's volume is about eight-hundred and eighty-six litres. The average person takes up sixty-six litres of that. Multiply both variables by two, as there are two of us and the coffin is twice as large to cater to our size, that leaves . . . "

The other finished it for him. "One thousand, six hundred and forty litres of air."

Tom blinked at him. "Exactly," He wasn't about to be impressed the boy knew basic mathematics. "And research claims a person consumes around twenty-three litres of air per hour, so double _that -_ "

"And divide it from one thousand six hundred and forty. That's about thirty-five, nearly thirty-six hours of air."

" _If_ we didn't have a steady stream of oxygen supplied to us," tiredly, Tom gestured to the tube. "So, thank fuck for merciful psychopaths . . . " he released a breath and leaned back.

They both greedily took in air, tasting dirt and dust, but grateful they weren't in immediate danger of asphyxiation.

"You're good with maths, then?" Tom asked, haltingly. Small talk wasn't his strong suit.

The other man hummed softly. "You know a lot about coffins, then?" he smiled weakly. " . . . Come here often?"

His half-hearted attempt at a pickup line fell flat.

Tom snorted. "I make a _living_ knowing arbitrary facts about various means of murder. Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Riddle," he introduced. "It's a pleasure."

"Huh. Sure. 'A pleasure'. If it makes you feel better, we can call it that," he muttered wryly. "Harry Potter." The boy, Harry (and Tom was a tad disappointed at such a dull name) bit his lip. "Detective, huh? I suppose there are worse people to be trapped with."

Thinking of Gellert and Albus, Tom agreed. "Much worse." His eyes narrowed in thought. His mind cast back to the crime scene photos, insistent on determining if this was a copycat kidnapper - or worse. "Speaking of - check your side again. There has to be a recording device somewhere."

"W - what? What are you talking about?"

"Take my word for it," Tom answered sternly. "Unless you want some psychopath listening in on us?"

Harry paused, his throat bobbing. Tom could practically hear Harry's thoughts circulating; Tom was used to people thinking he was paranoid.

"You're - " _crazy_ " - probably right."

Astonishingly, Harry began searching without another word. He was stubborn, jaw set with one-track focus. He clucked his tongue. "I can't find anything."

"It _has_ to be here," Tom's hands fell to his face, his blood pumping quick. "Right. Alright," he spread his fingers. "It's okay. He - she - _whomever,_ will let us out soon. There's no point risking our lives trying to claw our way out when he _always_ releases his matches. _Always._ We just have to wait it out, and - and say the magic words."

There was a beat, and Tom became fully aware of how utterly mad he sounded. _Deranged_.

Panic was surging in, breaking past his iron-clad barricades, rupturing his ability to remain calm. Squeezing his eyes shut, Tom's mind cast for something to say. "How - how soon will you be missed?"

Harry frowned, visibly frustrated. "I was supposed to open up shop this morning, but my boss - well, he's an idiot. I doubt he'll call the police. He'll just think I've slept in or took an abrupt sabbatical." His brow furrowed. "Why does it matter? Why are we here? Why did this - this 'Matchmaker' chose us?"

Tom wiped a hand over his face. "You ask too many questions."

"And I deserve an answer."

 _Touche,_ Tom thought. A damp, sweat-soaked curl brushed his forehead. "I'm investigating him," his tone was quiet. "Perhaps I was getting too close. As for _you?_ I can't figure out the connection. What do you last remember?"

"I was closing up after work, and there was this - "

"Woman?" Tom asked, expression serious.

"No? A man," Harry shook his head. "He was following me. It was dark, and I couldn't see what he looked like, but I kept catching his eyes in window reflections. The next thing I knew, there was a hand over my mouth and I blacked out." Harry's features scrunched before he shook the discontent away.

Tom moved the torchlight, subtly inspecting the boy for injuries. Black strands of hair scattered his clothing, and Tom imagined the boy putting up a fight, their kidnapper yanking his head back, fingers twined through those unruly curls. "Did he pull out your hair? Hurt you?"

"What?" Harry looked down at himself, barking out a laugh. "Oh. No, that's from my dog. Padfoot. He likes to jump on me. What about you?"

"Do I have a dog?" Tom asked, belatedly.

"No, silly," Harry smiled. It quickly slid off. "What do you last remember?"

"I was on my way home from a bar, and . . . " Tom didn't want to admit that he'd been overcome by a woman half his size. He puffed out a breath, changing the subject. "That doesn't matter now. This is all just so _odd,"_ he pinched his nose tightly. "There's _always_ some sort of connection."

"Connection?" Harry asked, curiosity creeping into his voice.

"Yes. He's called the 'Matchmaker' for a reason." Commandeering Harry's phone, Tom laid it on his chest and spread his fingers across the wooden lid, inspecting them. "All of his victims so far have been acquainted. Old schoolmates. Friends. Even - "

"Scorned lovers?" Harry twisted the words bitterly.

"Yes. You've heard the news?"

Harry's eyes lowered, nodding. His face was half-bathed in shadow, his black, tangled curls melting into the darkness. "I read it in the paper. Grindelwald killed his ex-lover while buried in a coffin, not unlike this one."

"Hm. Well," Tom smiled tightly. "Let's not give each other reason to smother anyone, how about that?"

There was a long, awkward pause.

"That - " Tom sighed at himself. "That was a joke."

Harry was dubious, and likely regretting the Matchmaker's choice in companionship.

"Uh-huh."

* * *

At around eight in the morning, Madam Poppy Pomfrey peeled herself from the Riddle's living room couch, a nasty crick in her neck.

She swept back a silver curl of hair, her tightly wound bun in disarray. With a soft grunt, Poppy leaned down and grabbed the book she had been reading the night before. It had fallen to the ground, the pages crumpled and bent.

Poppy wiped off the dust jacket and set it carefully onto the coffee table. She had stayed up most of the night waiting for Thomas, a platter of cold tea left out for him; she had thought, after a night of drinking with friends and colleagues, he could use a bit of sobering.

Blinking the gunk from her eyes, Poppy brought the tea tray to the sink, setting it down with a clatter. "Where is that boy?" she murmured. Her lips pressed in a matter that appeared stern but was actually closer to concern. Washing out the cups, she quickly made a new batch, maneuvering around the Riddle's kitchen as though it were her own.

She lifted the old, turquoise rotary phone and dialed Tom's cellular. It rang for several long minutes, the connection tinny, 's automated voicemail, his voice deeply put-upon. _"You have reached the voicemail of Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Riddle Junior. Leave a message at the tone, including your name and number, and I will get back to you as soon as I am available."_ Strict, succinct, and yet maintaining the vague impression that the caller's time wasn't exactly valuable to the Detective Chief Inspector.

Sighing, Poppy hung up.

She could hear Merope's rattling snores from the downstairs bedroom; it used to be an office, but when Merope's muscles became too weak for the nightly trek up and down the stairs, Tom converted the office into a small, but cozy bedroom. Best of all, it had a view of the gardens - Merope's pride and joy, although she was too weak to continue even that.

Tom watered the gardens every morning before he left for work, and the parsnips were looking particularly parched this morning. Poppy's frown deepened. While the tea steeped, she filled the watering can under the faucet and hobbled out the back porch.

Rucking up her skirt, Poppy leaned down. Water trickled from the can, splattering onto the dainty petals of the pansy flowers Merope cultivated. With a soft hum, Poppy began to tour the garden, careful to avoid the bloody geraniums. Bloody geraniums needed little water to bloom and blossom.

Poppy, a lover of flowers, believed bloody geraniums gained a bad reputation from their unfortunate name. Their color was less like blood and more of a vibrant purple. The petals matched the petechiae spots that speckled Merope's arms and legs, an unattractive symptom of -

A light, persistent tap shook Poppy form her task.

She glanced up at the shadow of Merope's figure peering out through the bedroom window.

The woman waved a frail hand, her lips played into a soft frown; a mother's instincts, perhaps, recognizing that something was very wrong, indeed. She was usually roused by the sounds of Tom puttering about her garden, his strong, handsome form bowed over the delicate flowers and green-topped vegetables.

Merope, sitting up in bed, struggled at the mere effort of moving aside the window curtain. She was dying. It was true. But Merope loved her son _so incredibly_ that the thought of dying and leaving him alone . . . terrified her more than death.

Tom was a resilient sort, but he was a mother's boy.

They were all each other had. Without his ailing mother to come home to, Merope doubted Tom would ever leave his office.

She doubted he would ever leave those gruesome murders and heinous crimes behind. He would throw his life into a profession that rarely came to a natural conclusion. There would always be another criminal to catch, bodies to find - crime never stopped and neither would Tom until he met his own grave.

Scrubbing a hand down her face, Merope began to slowly, achingly get herself dressed. The sun streamed through her window, glowing a sickly yellow on her wrinkled skin. Her hair, once a stark sheen of ebony, was lank and streaked with grey, tied into a frayed braid that helped with frictional hair loss.

Hands quivering with the effort, she reached to the bedside table and pulled on a pair of wire glasses. Her slight lazy eye corrected itself, tired obsidian eyes like pools of oil. Merope glanced at the table, lips pressed together.

Usually, in the mornings, Tom would place her pills on the bedside table beside a glass of lukewarm water. The table was empty.

Sighing, she tucked her feet into a pair of worn slippers. The slippers had once been a cheerful sky blue, but after years of wear and tear, they had become two slabs of grey fur. Tom had tried many times to throw them out and buy her new ones, forgetting that he had bought her _this_ pair (along with a matching robe) with his first paycheck. The robe had long since been worn to tatters.

Using the carved cane settled against her bed frame, Merope stood. The cane wobbled precariously. Gasping out a breath, Merope staggered toward the pile of clean clothes set out the night before. Her entire wardrobe was tailored to easily zipped or buttoned on. As she grasped the fabric of a light purple blouse, her fingers spasmed, and the article fluttered to the ground. Merope stared despondently down at it.

Lips falling open in a soft moan, she tentatively began to reach -

Her bones ached, her blood thrummed, her eyes prickled with tears. She was just in _so much damn pain._ "Poppy," she rasped, gasping for air. "Poppy!"

Outside the window, Poppy lifted her head, eyes going wide.

The screen door slammed open and Poppy rushed into the room, tutting like a mother hen. She settled her hands on Merope's frail elbows, leading her back toward the bed. Merope settled onto the mattress, leaning forward with her hands on her knees, taking in harsh breathes.

"Today . . . " she murmured. She watched with deadened eyes as Poppy retrieved her fallen blouse, handing it to her with nary an ounce of pity in her eyes. (Poppy felt pity, certainly, but had learned from several long years working with the Riddle-Gaunt family that both mother and son tended to shut down, throwing up barriers, when faced with what they thought was _condescension. )_

"Today will not be a good day."

Poppy made a light, disapproving sound. "Well, how do you know that?"

"Tom never came home, did he?" Merope asked rhetorically. "He never came to kiss me goodnight."

"He could have," Poppy suggested, helping Merope slip her arms through the soft, silky sleeves. "You may have been sleeping."

 _Likely not,_ Merope thought.

She didn't sleep well most nights.

The new medication should have taken care of that, but it had a series of nasty side effects that repulsed her. When Tom or Poppy served Merope her nightly tray of pills, she slipped the slipping drugs beneath her tongue and spat them out into her glass of water to dissolve. There would always be a fresh glass by the next morning, and although she believed Tom might suspect - he was such a smart boy - Poppy was none the wiser.

"Did he leave for work early this morning?" Merope asked, spreading her knees as Poppy pulled up her skirt. Her legs, pale and speckled with burst capillaries, tremored like a geriatric's. Her nose crinkled at the analogy. She wasn't _quite_ that old yet. "Have you called him?"

"I did. It went to voicemail."

"Well, then. Call his friend - the dark, distinguished man."

Madam Pomfrey tipped her head, confused. "Who? Oh! Shacklebolt, yes. I'll call him, _a_ _fter_ you take your medication, Merope," she tsked, smoothing out the creases in Merope's blouse.

Merope shook her head. "No. Now. I won't take it until you call."

Poppy prepared to protest, but Merope's intense, watery gaze made her falter. Her lips pursed, wrinkles pinching her face. "You're very stubborn. Will you really fight me on this?"

Merope gave her a wry, twitchy smile. "'Til my last breath."

Poppy let out a sigh, resigned. "Very well."

After getting her dressed, Poppy pulled a wheelchair out from the closet where it had been folded up and hidden away. Merope settled into the chair with a grimace, hating the very idea of being carted around as though she was some sort of invalid. "I made tea," Poppy said, falsely cheerful, wheeling Merope into the living room. "Your favorite."

"You don't make it as well as Tom does," Merope complained, but the glimmer in her eyes said she was only teasing.

"Oh, so you _wouldn't_ like a cup of fresh ginseng?" Poppy's eyebrows arched. "I used some of the herbal medicinal tea from that apothecary you like so much.'"

Merope tsked. "Tom thought he was so clever hiding the receipt, but despite my age, I _do_ know how to work Google. Fifty pounds for a few slices of wild ginseng root."

"He must really love you, Merope."

Merope's smile slipped from her face. Poppy rolled her eyes skyward. "Alright, alright, I'll call. Just finish your tea while I dial, you know it's good for you."

With sudden energy, Merope grasped the tea-cup and swallowed down the ginseng, barely registering the earthy, slightly bitter flavor. It would've been better with a touch of honey, Merope thought, _like how Tom makes it._

The cup itself was the last remaining of a set of six, the others having been dropped, chipped and used for target practice when Tom was ten.

He had received a BB gun from his estranged father for Christmas and had been obsessed with having perfect marksmanship; Thomas Senior had been a hunter, and now Tom hunted criminals. Like father, like son.

Shaking her head, Merope watched as Poppy flipped through their phonebook. Poppy soon found - written in Tom's precise, scrawling handwriting - the number of D.S. Kingsley Shacklebolt. She murmured the number aloud as she dialed, lifting the old rotary to her ear.

Glancing back at Merope's attentive figure, Poppy anxiously twirled a silver curl around her finger. "Hello, is this Detective Sergeant Shacklebolt?"

From the other end, Merope could hear a man's voice, gruff and deep. _"Yes, this is he. How did you get this number?"_

"Thomas gave it to me in case of emergencies. This is Poppy Pomfrey, his mother's nurse, I believe we met - "

 _"At the family function, yes,"_ his voice went soft with recognition. _"How are you, Poppy?"_

"Very well, thank you, dear," she fluttered a hand to her chest, finding herself unwittingly charmed. She wasn't as young as she used to be, and a handsome, strapping young man's polite inquiries gave her quite the thrill.

Merope, rolling her eyes, pushed forward in her wheelchair. The front wheel ran over the toe of Poppy's shoe and the nurse hissed.

Glaring at her charge, Poppy flicked her in the ear. "Sorry, yes, I just stubbed my toe. I'm sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but we - that is, Merope and I - were wondering if you've seen Tom?"

Kingsley's desk chair squeaked as he sat up. _"No. Have you?"_ the man asked. _"He hasn't arrived at work yet, but I thought perhaps he was hungover,"_ slightly guilty, he confided. _"I'm a bit hungover myself. We were out drinking at the pub last night, but he left early. He - uh - had a bit to drink and didn't seem to be enjoying himself. I haven't heard from him since."_

Rage bubbling in her stomach, Merope gestured for the phone, the tight curl of her lips indicating Kingsley was about to be read the riot act. "Are you to tell me," she snapped, voice sharp and grating, unlike Poppy's soft cadence. Kingsley winced. "That my _son_ could very well be wandering around drunk or injured or _worse,_ all because you - a grown adult - were too busy _indulging_ yourself to send him home in a cab?"

 _"Ma'am,"_ Kingsley said, placating. " _All due respect, but your son is a grown man, not to mention the Detective Chief Inspector of the DLE. He knows his limits, and I'm sure he's resting it off somewhere in a motel - "_

Merope scoffed. "A motel! Clearly, you don't my son very well at all." She began to tremble, and Poppy carefully extricated the phone from her grasp before it could fall.

"Just have him call us if he comes into work," Poppy told Kingsley. "Thank you, Detective - no, really, it's not your fault. Please, enjoy your day, and perhaps try some ginger tea for the hangover, with a bit of honey for a pick-me-up." Her lips split into a small smile. "You're very welcome. Have a good afternoon. Yes. Yes. Goodbye."

Hanging up the phone with a clang, she spun around, hands on her hips. "Well! You certainly handled that well."

Sniffing, Merope patted at her eyes, and Poppy softened. "Oh, deary," she tutted, crouching down. She patted her shoulders consolingly, letting Merope rest her head against Poppy's breasts. "He'll be alright, Merope. I know he will be."

"He _better_ be," Merope snarled, hiding her face. "Little brat."

* * *

According to Harry's phone, it was now close to noon. Seeing the battery slowly ween away, Tom turned off the device to preserve energy. The two were bathed in darkness. They kept each other company by making idle comments, cracking jokes, or simply focusing on the other's breathing. It assured them that they weren't alone.

Tom, brow furrowing, realized Harry was panting.

"Are you alright?" Tom paused. "You're . . . breathing rather hard."

"Y - yeah. I'm fine. I just never realized how - how t-tight it would get in here," his breathing labored, Harry began to tremble. His eyes darted between the ceiling and the walls. He drew in on himself, limbs knocking together.

Tom blanched. "God, don't tell me you're claustrophobic?"

"No!" Harry defended furiously. "No, I'm fine. I'll _be_ fine. Just," he sucked in a shallow breath. "Keep me distracted."

Tom thought quickly, feeling the weight of Harry's phone on his chest. "Um. Your screensaver; it's of a little boy. Is he yours?" Tom instantly regretted the question. The child looked eight or nine at most, and Harry was . . . young. Logical deduction was clearly failing him. _Perhaps shock was finally settling in,_ Tom wondered grimly.

Harry let out a breathless laugh. "Oh. Kind of."

Tom's stomach jumped at the thought of Harry being a single father. Truthfully, the thought of _anyone_ being such a young parent reminded him of his mother. Lips pressed together, as he tried not to imagine her reaction to him being kidnapped. She'd be furious.

"He's my godson," Harry continued, breaking Tom from that line of thought. "He's living with his grandmother. I want to get custody at some point, but that's not likely to happen with my salary," the boy admitted. "Teddy's happy there. He's safe, and his grandmum spoils him."

"Where are his parents?" Tom inquired, voice deep. He hoped he wasn't crossing a boundary.

"They're dead," Harry's jaw clenched. "Like mine."

His voice seemed to echo in the small chambers.

Before Tom could respond, likely with condolences or something equally meaningless, his stomach rumbled. Tom's face erupted with heat. "God, I'm so sor - "

Harry released a laugh, the sound like springtime. If Tom could see in the dark, he was sure Harry's eyes would be sparkling. "I'm hungry, too," Harry agreed. "It's around lunchtime. Think anyone has noticed by now?"

Tom settled a hand on his stomach, feeling it tighten with faint hunger. He spoke idly. "My coworkers, likely. I very rarely miss work," he somehow felt the need to keep the conversation light. "How about you?"

Snorting, Harry's eyes fluttered shut with a yawn. His breathing was still spiked, but Tom could sense the tension bleeding away from him. "As I said, Slughorn is a moron. Considering I do all the work, he's probably struggling without me," his voice tinged with pity. "Sluggy's a good man, despite it all. He doesn't mean any harm. He just - erm - _exposed_ himself to a few too many drugs in his youth. All play and no work has made Sluggy a dull boy."

"Slughorn? From _Slug and Jiggers_?" Tom realized. "I shop there. Not for me," he said quickly. "For my mother's . . . er, 'herbal medications'."

"I can hear your air quotes, Tom."

The man gave a hapless shrug. "It sounds like witchcraft to me, but it if it makes her feel even the slightest bit more human, I'd pay anything for it," he paused, thinking. "I've never seen you there . . . I don't think."

"I work in back," Harry divulged. "At least, I do now. There was an . . . _incident_." He coughed, cheeks flushing. "One of our customers took a _liking_ to me, and she began to follow me after work. Romilda figured out my weekly schedule and kept bumping into me at the grocers. I thought it was just harmless, at first - until she gave me these chocolates. They were laced with date rape drugs and aphrodisiacs," Harry said. His tone was somber. "Enough to kill a small child."

Tom's growled in his throat, rubbing viciously at his skin. "I remember, now. I arrested that woman. She was a _biter,_ that bitch."

In a stroke of sudden confidence, he plucked up Harry's hand. Tom ran the boy's fingers across the puckered scar on his arm - Harry's eyes dilated in the dark, the sensitive pads brushing against soft hair. "She left me that scar. Left quite the impression."

Harry laughed at the unintentional joke.

"That's around the time I started visiting your apothecary," Tom admitted. "I saw some of the medication on display and looked up your website. My mother seemed interested, so I got her some ginseng tea there. She loves it."

"I'm glad." Green eyes crinkled around the corners.

"I always try to get in and out very fast. My nose is sensitive and your shop always smells like rotten eggs and frankincense."

Harry snickered. "Slughorn keeps spilling the sulfur. It's stuck in the carpet by now."

Tom considered him, eyes narrowed. "It's a wonder we haven't met sooner."

"A wonder," Harry repeated. He blinked, shifting in place. "You said . . . your mother's medication. Is she ill?"

Tom's heart skipped a beat.

He cursed his loose tongue. Perhaps the lack of proper oxygen was getting to his head. "She is," he said curtly. "Quite ill."

"Oh." Harry didn't know what to say; no more than Tom did when Harry mentioned his parent's deaths.

Tom snorted, fighting the urge to face simply wasn't enough space for his shoulders. "That's right," he mocked bitterly. " _Oh."_

"Want to talk about it?" Harry invited softly.

"I rarely speak to even my friends about it." _W_ _hat friends?_ his inner voice said, cruel. "So why do you think I'd tell you?"

Harry's open, kind expression abruptly closed off. His attractive features went blank, eyes almost dead.

"Of course," he murmured, and risked the pain of moving to turn on his side. Harry stared at the sides of the coffin, feeling suddenly, utterly alone. "Sorry. I - " He fought the sudden prickle of tears. His heart thumped wildly, the claustrophobia persistent as he curled in on himself. "Sorry."

They sat in silence. Silent as the dead.

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**


	4. Interlude

****_The Matchmaker_****

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**IV:**

 **Interlude**

 ** _A Golden Morning_ **

The sun gleamed outside the window of the five-star Spanish honeymoon suite, and Mundungus Fletcher - now _Lockhart,_ he supposed - woke in a good mood.

Spanish weather was so starkly different from London's. Every day was bright and warm, not a cloud in sight. This was a good thing, since Dung hated the smell of petrichor.

He hated London City, with it's dingy back-alleys, the constant sensation of feeling unclean and the smell of sewer water.

He'd lived on the streets of London half his adult life, so he ought to be used to it by now; but as soon as the proposal came, an opportunity to leave the streets and join Gilderoy Lockhart in a penthouse with frequent sex and a fresh shower every day, he jumped on the chance. Gilderoy was pleasant enough to be around. He was narcissistic to a fault, and when he opened his mouth Dung wanted to bash his skull in. But he had a pretty face and a smile that would make Mundungus swoon if he was a lesser man.

Their marriage was officiated in Spain, where gay marriage had been legal for a few years now. Their honeymoon, too, was currently being spent in a Spanish hotel on the coast.

Mundungus woke that morning, with a tanned arm slung around his waist and a hangover from the plentiful sangrias. Lockhart was still blissfully asleep. His attractive features less attractive when slackened, drool creating a damp spot in the silk pillowcase. Grimacing, Mundungus extricated himself from his husband's grip, gagging at the other man's morning breath.

Lockhart was much prettier when awake, showered and not smelling that disgusting mixture of sex and lavender perfume.

Cracking his neck, Mundungus shuffled into the shower. Steam filled the hotel bathroom, fogging the gold-gilded mirror. Already naked, he set out a fluffy white towel, inordinately soft, before stepping beneath the showerhead. He scrubbed the scent of sex from his skin, practically moaning at the smooth slide of soap. He was _never_ taking a hot shower for granted _ever_ again.

Mundungus savored the water rushing over his tanned skin, but knew he only had an hour to meet his dealer. Shaking the droplets of water from his bald head, Dung stepped out and wrapped himself up cozily. Scrubbing a hand over his stubbled face, Dung decided to keep his beard. Maintaining wary eye on his snoring husband, Dung slipped on a pair of his old boots and his ancient, tatterrd leather jacket. He played the part of a homeless ne'er-do-well _very_ well, knowing it'd be better to blend in if he acted like 'one of the _them_ '.

Gilderoy rolled over with an elongated mewl. His manicured hand groped the bed for a moment before latching onto Dung's blanket. He tugged the silk comforter to his chin and snuggled in further. Dung frowned fiercely at the warm sensation that flooded him. Damn it, but his husband could be _cute,_ so long as his mouth was shut.

Still scowling, Mundungus lifted Lockhart's pants off the floor and silently fished for the man's wallet. He counted out the Spanish euros before shrugging and stuffing the entire wallet into his back pocket. "Where'ya goin, Mikey?" Gilderoy's eyes fluttered open, just as Mundungus reached for the doorknob. The man stilled.

He _hated_ the name 'Michael', but Gilderoy refused to call him 'Dung'. Despite Dung's protests, Gilderoy had settled on the affectionate nickname 'Mikey'. Dung cringed at it every time.

". . . just for some breakfast, darling," he bit out. "Won't be long."

"Hm," Lockhart yawned. "Bring me back a _leche frita?"_ Gilderoy didn't even attempt to pronounce it correctly; _'leech-ee fry-ta',_ he slurred. Dung didn't pride himself on fluency of the Spanish language, but he'd picked up a few select phrases.

 _"El burro sabe más que tú,"_ Dung murmured in response.

"Wazz'that?"

Dung snickered to himself. "It meant, er, _'of course'._ "

"Why didn't you just say that, then?" The words were muffled as Lockhart rolled onto his stomach. He drifted back to sleep.

Sighing in relief, Dung made sure to close the door quietly behind him. Jerking his collar, Dung slipped down the elevator and out a back entrance. Lockhart's cash weighed heavily in his pocket, but Dung felt little guilt. Isn't that what they always said? _Whatever's mine is yours._

Mundungus entered their relationship with barely a cent to his name. He was a veteran, technically, trained as an aircraft technician for the British Army. He was discharged after accidentally breaking a fellow technician's thumb with a hammer. The man retaliated by stabbing Dung with a screwdriver. Dung still had the scar and got into the habit of calling it a bullet wound. A 'battle scar'. Dung scratched the mark now, nestled right under his jugular. There was an ugly patch of missing chest hair that never grew back, and Lockhart liked to stroke the mark in bed. It was sensitive.

Clearing his throat and fighting a blush, Dung disappeared into the streets of Málaga. The white, crumbling architecture was almost blinding in the sunlight. There were few dark alleyways in Málaga, but Dung took advantage of the shadows cast by the towering buildings. He had the route memorized by now, following landmarks instead of signs. It took another ten minutes before he reached the rendezvous.

Leaning casually against the wall beside a rubbish bin, Dung waited for his dealer.

There wasn't much to do besides flip through Lockhart's wallet; he tipped his head at the small I.D. image, and was astonished that Lockhart was still _radiant_ even in black and white. He stifled a chuckle. Gilderoy's middle name was Marian; he recalled it briefly on their wedding certificate, but to be truthful, he'd been incredibly drunk during the ceremony. Gilderoy hadn't seemed to notice, assuming Mundungus' staggering gait was simply because Dung was 'overcome with emotion'.

"Dung," a voice said gruffly. Standing ramrod straight, Dung flipped the wallet shut and slipped it away.

Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody hobbled in the alley, leaning heavily on his left leg. The scarred, hulking man was London-born and a former general for the British Army. He'd lost his leg, his eye and part of his nose after being taken captive and tortured for information. Dung never asked for the details, but from what he heard on the grapevine, Moody went on a vicious rampage after they threatened to find and kill his daughter. He murdered his captor with his bare hands.

Dung didn't doubt it.

He eyed Moody's wooden leg warily, detecting the outline of a knife strapped to the limb. He twitched. "Y - you got what I need, Mad-Eye? The - "

"Keep quiet, Dung," the man barked. "What if someone was watching, eh? If one of us were bugged, if I was a copper, it'd be like a verbal confession."

"You're not, though. Are you?" Dung asked.

"Course not, you idiot."

"So, you _do_ got it?"

Mad-Eye's nose curled, a scar on his cheek warping. Shady business ran in his family, and once he became an invalid, he was relegated to grunt work. He hated lowlifes like Dung, but he had bills to pay and a daughter in college to provide for. "I've got it," he spat to the side, baring a yellowed snaggle tooth. "We've already agreed on the price."

"I have the money," Dung assured, patting Lockhart's wallet. "I wanna see it first, though."

"Course you do," Moody sighed. He gave a wry grin. "You're loaded now, aren't you? Got yourself a rich little boy-toy . . . or is it a sugar daddy? I never took you for the marrying type."

Dung felt no need to protect Gilderoy's honor. He was who he was. "What can I say? Marriage; it's worth both the bang _and_ the buck."

Moody frowned, his glass eye watching Dung unerringly. "I don't think that's how the saying goes."

"It was a turn of phrase, Moody." Dung rolled his eyes. "A dirty joke. I was trying to be witty. To bang someone is slang for - nevermind, it's not funny if I have to explain it."

"Huh. Well, stop. Smartarses get nowhere - and don't you dare make a damn innuendo out of 'arses', either," he warned.

Dung barked out a laugh.

Digging through his heavy jacket, Moody pulled out a plastic bag of a snowy white powder. "I can't tell you where I got it from or else I'll get shot, so that prob'ly tells you how pure it is."

Dung licked his lips and forked over the cash. "At this point, I don't care. I'd rather be back in that damn coffin than go another week without a fix."

Moody snorted, and counted out the euros, double and triple checking for paranoia's sake. "From what I've heard, and from what you've told me, you were baked in there, too," he tucked the money away, patting his pocket.

"Whatever the ' _Matchmaker_ '," Dung mocked. "Slipped me reacted badly with the acid I'd been testing. I don't remember a damn thing except for darkness and an annoying voice in my head. Apparently, I was a great listener," his lips skewed into a sickeningly 'charming' grin. "Lockhart likes me best when I'm stoned."

"Ah - so this is for the sanctity of your marriage, then?" Moody said, amused, as Dung made a line of coke on the garbage lid then and there.

Dung held one of his nostrils shut, eyes dilating. "In sickness and in health. For better, for worse," he murmured. "For richer, for poor. See ya Moody. Don't get shot."

"Wotcher," the man said.

The world blurred, and the next thing he remembered, Dung was in the elevator back up to their hotel room. He found his key card in a back pocket and jammed it into the lock, snuffling to himself.

Humming softly beneath his breath, _Here Comes the Bride_ , Dung dropped the takeout bag on the kitchen counter. A fresh _leche frita_ was steaming inside. "Don't say I never do anything for you," he told Lockhart's sleeping figure. Mind buzzing far too rapidly for Mundungus to fell tired, he slipped back into bed fully clothed, and stared up at the ceiling. Gilderoy grunted in his sleep, his hand falling onto Dung's chest.

The younger man, glowing in the golden morning light, resembled sunshine.

Gilderoy's wedding ring glinted, a kaleidoscope of colors. Dung wondered how much it would be worth on the black market; Lockhart was known to be a bit forgetful, and he always took it off before showering.

Dung snagged the man's hand and kissed it.

He hid a vicious smirk, and let himself drift; content in his 'happy' marriage.

* * *

 ** _An Olive Branch_**

Although the television screen was muted, Myrtle fancied that she could read lips. _"I've told you time and time again, Celestina,"_ Stubby Boardman clutched Celestina Warbeck's hand, her beautiful, pale face smeared with tears. _"I don't care if you're an amnesiac or if you're pregnant with my brother's son . . . you're my soulmate."_

The soap opera was Myrtle's only entertainment on days like today. She was a barista at _The Leaky Cauldron,_ and rush hour had come and gone. It was rainy, smog settled heavily over the city. Even for bistros that specialized in fresh, warm food, the rain presented major hardships. Myrtle stared despondently at the mason jar of tips; it was empty. Not that she got many to begin with.

She leaned further on the counter, watching with rapture as Celestina and Stubby kissed - when her elbow slipped on a wet smoothie spill. Her shoulder jammed into a pile of dirty dishes, which clattered into the sink.

Tom, her boss, jerked his head out from the backroom. "Bloody hell," he swore. "You scared me, kid. What the hell've you done now?"

"I . . . tripped?" she said nervously, hastily gathering the plates The man didn't get mad easily but he did _not_ like it when she slacked on the job.

"Uh huh," he inspected her warily. Tom tossed a rag over his shoulder and stepped closer to her. He was getting on in age, but looked years younger, with rosy cheeks and spiky grey hair. "Feeling a bit restless, kid?"

Easily defined, Myrtle Warren was a flurry of nervous tics and pouts.

Myrtle twitched, hands in constant movement. She tucked a loose strand of black hair behind her ear, huffing in indignation. "I'm fine. Just bored, is all."

She wasn't traditionally pretty, with watery eyes behind ugly glasses and pockmarks speckled across her forehead. She didn't get as much attention from customers as the other baristas; she was, however, the only one who made it to work today. Tom was grateful for it.

"How 'bout you take the evening off?" he suggested. "God knows we aren't gonna get any more customers with this rain. I made extra bagels; take some to your girlfriend, surprise her at work . . . along with a cup of dark roast, too, on the house."

Myrtle lit up at the mention of her girlfriend. "That's perfect," she simpered, swiftly untying her extremely stained apron and tearing out her ponytail. She gathered her hoodie from the breakroom and stood awkwardly in the threshold as if forgetting something.

Tom was amused. "That drink isn't gonna make itself."

"Right," she blushed.

She started the machine and let it whir. Once the coffee finished dribbling out of the machine, softly steaming, Merope got too excited. She grasped it with both hands, the cup collapsing. A bit of the top sloshed onto her jeans, the droplets soaking quickly into the material. Swearing, she sucked at her scalded fingers and popped a plastic lid on top. With a sharpie marker in hand and a tongue tucked between her lips, she scrawled out _'My darling Olive,'_ on the cup sleeve in her best cursive. After doodling a little heart, giving it an arrow through the middle, Myrtle smiled and stood straight.

"Done?" Tom asked, raising a bushy grey brow. He set down a pulp fiber tray and Myrtle slotted the cup inside.

"Can I make one for myself?"

"If you can manage to keep it in the cup this time."

As the second cup brew, she used tongs to pull out two plain bagels from the display case. Olive didn't like hers toasted but had a secret, guilty addiction to the raspberry jam. Myrtle brushed the bagel crumbs from her hands. "Think she'll be happy to see me?" she asked, slightly apprehensive.

Tom hesitated. "I think so." _Though what I think and what'll_ happen _are two separate things,_ Tom didn't say.

From witnessing Myrtle's interactions with the female lawyer, Tom could only rationalize their relationship with: _I guess opposites attract._ On the outside, it was a beautiful, tragic love story - two women separated by class, star-crossed, one a 'queen' and the other a servant. It was the gender-bent tale of Cinderella, but instead of loving a prince, Myrtle fell for the evil stepsister.

. . . Metaphorically.

Tom shook his head. He, of course, had his reservations, but Tom did his best to support Myrtle. As her employer, and as her friend.

She was just a kid, and she's already been through too much. Not long ago, she'd been viciously traumatized by the _Matchmaker's_ attack. Nearly three months ago, she went missing in the middle of the night, lured into an alleyway at the faint whimper of - what she thought - was a stray dog. The animal had been bathed in shadow, but before her eyes could adjust, a hand closed around her mouth and a cloth placed over her mouth. She told him, in a shaking voice, what she remembered most was the _voice_. The dog had begun barking, almost like a rabid animal, until a soft voice whispered _'hush, boy,'_ and the creature heeled.

Tom, himself, had filed the missing person's report when she hadn't arrived for her morning shift. He went about his day in a state of vague concern until news broke that two girls had been found buried alive. Video footage showed the retrieval; he was relieved to witness Myrtle and another victim emerge from the coffin clutching each other's hands.

The other victim, however, was a surprise. Olive Hornby, witness attorney, had been dressed in a rumpled pencil skirt, her lipstick smeared, and a heel of her shoe snapped; he almost didn't recognize her without a Blackberry plastered to her ear.

Hornby was a frequent customer who the other baristas called _'Cruella DeVil'._ Tom always knew when she had arrived by the clicking of her sharp, four-inch heels on the hardwood and the sound of her snapping at her poor assistant. Last he recalled, she had fired the poor temp and hired another within the same half-hour break. Myrtle was always scheduled during Olive's lunch break. Olive was dismissive at best, and cruel to her at worst - she was constantly volleying back and forth between ordering a venti dark roast and railing insults through her cell phone. Against all odds, Myrtle had become enthralled with Olive's bright red lips and sarcastic quips. Myrtle would daydream for hours on end, sighing at the television and ignoring her duties.

Tom was almost grateful the two had gotten together. Myrtle worked harder and faster when she had a dinner date to look forward to, and always came to work with a skip to her step.

He watched as she balanced the bagels and the cups, her hood up as she stepped out the front door.

"Bye, Tom!" Myrtle called out to him, flapping her free hand. Her voice cracked as she stepped into the cold rain. "Gross!It's pouring," she spluttered.

Tom lifted an idle hand in goodbye, shaking his head fondly.

Myrtle rushed to the parking lot, knobby knees shaking under her uniform skirt. Her dingy car was parked at the furthest possible spot, and she sloshed through puddles of mud. Panting slightly, she scrambled for her keys and opened the lock. Myrtle slid into the front seat, shivering and soaked to the bone.

 _She's worth it,_ Myrtle told herself fiercely, imagining Olive's small approving grin. Well, it was more of a quirk of the lip, really.

Olive had been staying late at work most nights and giving rainchecks on their dinner dates. Myrtle was a bit put-out, but knew Olive was busy with some case or another. Myrtle wasn't sure _what_ Olive did, but since the dress code called for pencil skirts and tight blouses, she certainly wasn't complaining. Myrtle was sure Olive would be thrilled to see her.

Snuffling, Myrtle turned on the heat and wrapped her cold fingers around the steering wheel. She backed up carefully, squinting to see through the rainstorm. Her wipers swung lazily, smearing the rain more than anything. The rich, bitter smell of coffee filled the car, and her stomach rumbling. _Soon,_ she reminded herself.

When she arrived at Olive's office a few minutes later, Myrtle took a moment to bring down the vanity mirror. A soft mewl left her lips. She resembled a drowned _rat,_ her hair dangling in tangled, wet strips, her glasses smeared with water. She hurriedly wiped at the lenses and tried to fix her hair into some semblance of a style. It looked _greasy_ and _snarled_ and -

Myrtle shoved the door open, nose crinkled as she fought tears. She clutched the food to her chest and allowed the rain to fall over her skin, a chill reaching her bones.

Lifting her head high, as though nothing bothered her, Myrtle stepped into the office; _Prewett, Nott & Hornby, Attorneys at Law. _It wasn't a cozy office, with largely minimalistic decor, but it _was_ warm. Olive worked in a large office building, the waiting room filled with irritated, just as wet-looking souls, dressed in suits.

Myrtle cleared her throat, struck with the sensation they were all watching her. Her fingers trembled slightly around the coffee tray. She stopped at the receptionist's desk where a woman with brown hair pulled into a tight bun dutifully jotted down notes from her computer.

"May I help you?" the receptionist said dryly.

Myrtle stilled. The woman should _know_ her by now - she was Olive's girlfriend, for god's sake, and she'd visited before. Did Olive not _talk_ about her, ever? Myrtle curbed her anxious, panicking, quickly spiraling thoughts. She knew she was overreacting, and so did the secretary. The woman eyed Myrtle with faint distaste. "I'm," she cleared her throat. "I'm Olive's girlfriend - I brought her some coffee?" she postured it like a question.

"I can see that," the secretary said. _Irma Pince_ _,_ her badge read. "Unfortunately, Ms. Hornby is busy. Would you like to make an appointment?"

"I don't - I don't _need_ to make an appointment," Myrtle said, consternated. "Could you just, call up to her, maybe? She'll want to see me. You have an intercom, don't you?"

Irma's bored countenance finally flashed with some sort of emotion. Her fingers closed around the intercom, covering it. "I was told explicitly not to bother her - "

Fed up, Myrtle tore away from the counter. "Forget it! She can make some time for me."

Behind her, the secretary made a choked noise of protest. Her lips pursed in sympathy before she shook her head. "Little idiot," she murmured, returning to her computer.

Myrtle fumed all the way up the elevator. She imagined what she would say to Olive; _your secretary treated me like_ dirt, _haven't you told her we're together?_ The elevator dinged, and Myrtle exited on the second floor. The doors were made of glass, but the blinds were shuttered. Myrtle could read _O. Hornby_ printed on the door.

Prepared to find Olive situated behind her desk, perhaps reading the riot act to one of her clients over the phone or chewing on her pen like she was prone to do, Myrtle was entirely surprised to hear faint sounds of . . . was that . . . _grunting?_

Her breath caught in her throat, suddenly terrified that Olive was choking or injured or lying dead on the floor - Myrtle curled a hand around the door handle and yanked.

The coffee fell from her hands.

All she could see was a strong, firm back dressed in a white dress shirt, and two long, dark, familiar legs wound about his waist. Olive's eyes fluttered at the sound of coffee splashing, long eyelashes peeling open. Her mouth, red lips smeared and dripping with saliva, parted in a small _'o'._ Her hand scrabbled at the man's back, nails scraped into his skin. In response, he bit the small of her throat, her head rearing back. "Arcturus," she whispered, tone raspy. "Arcturus, stop."

 _Arcturus Black,_ the words echoed in Myrtle's head. Olive's new assistant. Her jaw trembled.

He pulled back in confusion, and all Myrtle could see through the tears blurring her eyes, was dark hair and an aristocratic chin.

 _Just another rich pretty boy._ Myrtle frantically thought back to Olive's complaints about the man; he was lazy, he'd been disowned from his family, he kept flirting with her clients, he could never get work done in time -

Apparently, those were his only faults.

Shaking her head, droplets of water splashing through the air, Myrtle jerked away.

"M - Myrtle," Olive called out weakly. "This isn't . . . "

"Who are you talking too?" Arcturus mumbled, peeking back just as Myrtle disappeared into the hallway, slamming the door behind her.

"N - no one," Olive choked out after a moment. Her hand clenched his shirt. "No one at all."

Myrtle let out a choked sob. Leaning against the wall, Myrtle finally let the tears flow.

She let out a moan that seemed to echo down the halls, despondent and haunting.

Like a ghost.

* * *

 ** _A Total Eclipse of the Moon_**

A mirror in one hand and a moist towelette in the other, Ginny wiped the makeup from her face. It came off in sticky clumps, the purple eyeshadow smearing, giving her the appearance of a _raccoon._

A high, bell-like laugh sounded behind her. "You look like that little creature . . . the one who I catch digging around our trash at night?"

Luna held the slight lisp of a Frenchwoman; she had the hair and pale skin of one, too. She'd been raised in Paris with her mother and father until her mother's death, after which her grieving father moved them to England – into a house right next door to the Weasley family. _It had been destiny_ , Luna was fond of saying, their pillow talk filled with sweet nothings and Luna's ramblings about karma and kismet.

She matched the décor, dressed in a cascading white dress and colorful, feathered earrings that tickled her collarbone. Their bed was covered in plush, ivory sheets, quilted blankets and hand-stitched pillows. Jewelry and clothes were scattered on the floor, a lace bra hanging over the vanity and a sketchbook propped against the mirror, a colored picture of Ginny – sleeping peacefully - on display.

There was no dark colors to be found in their home. Ginny, however, with her tanned skin and brown freckles and copper hair, felt out of place even in her own home.

"Raccoon," Ginny sighed, glum. "I know. The damn makeup won't come off."

"Why did you wear so much today, love?"

Luna glided over to Ginny, standing behind her in the bedroom vanity. She was soft and beautiful as always, a pale, dainty hand stroking Ginny's hair, like a pet. Starved for touch, Ginny leaned into it. ". . . interview," she said, finally. "I spoke with an athlete who's notoriously hard to get alone"

"Did it go well?" Luna asked, genuinely thrilled for her.

"He was certainly a strong-willed fellow. Didn't seem to like me one bit. A pity, but I got what I needed from him," her lips quirked in a small semblance of a smirk. Ginny continued working on the monstrosity that was her face. "Where did _you_ go, today?" She tried to keep her tone light.

"Oh," Luna said dismissively. She threaded her fingers into Ginny's long red hair, the strands wet and slightly tacky. "Nowhere, really. Are you sure you washed your hair well enough, love? _"_

"You pivoted the topic, Luna. I'm a journalist, that's my job." Ginny's lips tugged into a frown. "Seriously, where were you? I tried calling you a few times – "

Luna released a breathy laugh. "More than a few times," she said gently. "Nearly blew up my phone, really."

"So, what?" Ginny set the mirror down. She turned, frustrated. "I was worried. I missed you."

Luna, who'd tensed at the sudden movement, slowly relaxed. "I turned my phone off," she admitted, voice light. "It was nice, not being so . . . _connected._ Do you know how dangerous phones are? They strain your eyes and my daddy always says social media will be the downfall of our society – not to mention the _germs_ that collect on the screen, let alone – "

"Luna!" Ginny snapped, exasperated. She turned in her chair, hazel eyes blazing. "I don't – I don't _care_ what your dad says about cell phones. Were you ignoring me?" she demanded. "Is that what it was?"

"No!" Luna exclaimed, eyes wide. "I promise, I wasn't trying to ignore you. Nev and I just went to the museum and I wanted to – "

Ginny paused. " _Nev?_ Neville? You were – you were with _him?"_

"Well, yes. He wanted to see that exhibit on underwater sea-life and thought I would like it – " she trailed off, almost shy. "I did. It was beautiful. Did you know seahorses -"

"Stop that," Ginny spat. "So you're going on dates with _him_ now, then? Does he know you're a lesbian?"

"You – " Luna's breath caught. "I'm pansexual, Ginny, you know that. But my sexuality has nothing to do with it. He's my friend! You were just at Harry's the other day."

"Harry means nothing to me!" Ginny's voice escalated into a scream. The words bounced off the walls, traveling through the air like the slice of a knife. "But you and Neville -

"Ginny, he bought the tickets months ago, before . . . before everything. You know you mean more to me than he does. Why are you so upset?" Luna insisted, laying a trembling hand on Ginny's shoulder. "I swear, there's nothing between us, Ginny, not anymore. He's – he's my best friend."

" _I'm_ supposed to be your best friend." Ginny hissed, blinking rapidly, as though fighting back tears. "Your _very_ best friend."

Luna's breath caught. "Oh," she breathed, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did. She pulled Ginny towards her, enveloping the older girl in a tight, consuming hug. "I'm sorry," she whispered, voice shaking. "I didn't know you'd be so upset." She didn't use the word _jealous_ or _possessive,_ though the thought crossed her mind. "Please. Don't be angry with me."

There was a pause, the thump of a heartbeat, before Ginny spoke.

She pressed her mouth into Luna's throat, mumbling the words. "I'm not angry with _you,"_ she said, sniffling. "I'm angry at _myself_ for letting this happen. I should've seen how he looks at you – "

Luna's brows furrowed, and she tried to pull away. "How he -?"

"I shouldn't have let you two _hang out_ as much as you have," Ginny continued fiercely. "Neville doesn't think we're going to last. No one does. Harry doesn't. Hell, my _mother_ doesn't. But they don't understand. You're _mine,_ Luna – I'm the only one who loves you. Neville can't ever love you as much as I do – no one can. No one."

"Ginny, you're rambling," Luna, concerned, held a hand to the woman's forehead. She blinked, startled. "You're . . . you're so cold. Are you feeling well? Did you get caught in the rain? Is _that_ why your hair is so wet?"

"Don't be _stupid,"_ Ginny spat, swatting at Luna. "I'm not _sick."_

Luna caught her hands deftly, tugging her close. The blunt nails were jagged and dirty, slightly trembling, and the tips blue. "There's dirt under your nails, Ginny, what've you – "

Almost violently, Ginny pulled away, back hitting the vanity. The table rattled, and a bottle of peony perfume tipped over. They ignored the sound of glass shattering.

"It's me or him, Luna," Ginny said, the words bursting from her lips like a tsunami. "I'm so done with this. Done with . . . coming second. I should be your priority, not him."

Luna flinched.

Gimny's eyes only hardened. " _Me_ or _him_."

Luna let out an almost choked sound. Her pink lips pried apart as she whispered. "W - why would you force me to choose? If you say that you love me, why would you - " she cut herself off, shaking her head. Blonde strands drifted through the air. "You don't mean that."

"I do. I'm serious." _Deadly serious._

"I'm not choosing between you guys. I'm leaving, Ginny," she murmured, eyes lowered. She turned toward the door, her hand lingering on the frame. "I think you need some time to yourself."

"You - "Ginny stared blankly at the back of Luna's shining, flaxen head, the strands glowing like a halo in the fluorescent bedroom lights. Her lips tightened. " _You're_ leaving _me?_ " she whispered, affronted.

Her fingers curled around a pink shard of glass, a piece of the broken perfume. "We'll see about that."

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**


	5. The Breakthrough

****_The Matchmaker_****

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **V:**

 _ **The Breakthrough**_

"They're not coming, are they?" Harry's voice broke through the silence, like a butterfly breaking through a chrysalis. His tone was soft, almost resigned.

Tom jerked awake from his dazed sleep. He was fatigued, lethargic. It was hard to keep his eyes open. "Who?"

"The police. Someone. Anyone." Harry shifted, turning stiffly to face Tom. "It's been too long."

"It's not - " Tom's hand twitched toward Harry's phone, a familiar urge to check the time, but the device had died long ago. "We can't be certain they're not coming for us right now."

"But that's just it, isn't it? What if they don't even know we're missing. What if whoever _buried_ us here has changed their mind? Or - or forgotten," his tone pitched with distress. "What if by the time they clue in the police, it's already too late? We can breathe fine, certainly, but - "

"You're panicking," Tom told him, deadpan. "Stop."

"I'm just trying to be practical," he defended. "We can last quite a while without food, but we need water. Dehydration is a slow torture."

Sighing, Tom pinched the arch of his nose. He tried to sound reassuring. "There's a time frame, Harry. The _Matchmaker_ never lets his victims go more than a day underground. He's not a killer - he's - "

"Already killed someone already, hasn't he?" Harry licked his bottom lip. It trembled, as though he was on the verge of tears before he caught it between his front teeth.

"Inadvertently, perhaps," Tom admitted. "But Grindelwald was the one to smother Dumbledore, not the Matchmaker."

"They wouldn't have _been_ in that situation if not for the Matchmaker, right?" Harry pressured, almost insistent.

Tom hesitated. "Perhaps not - but in the end, the Matchmaker helped us. He _gave_ us the recording to prove Grindelwald was a murderer; it tipped the scale, allowing Grindelwald to be prosecuted. I've personally watched our interrogation with him over and over, he wasn't going to admit to a damn thing until we brought in that solid evidence. Without the Matchmaker . . . " Tom blinked, before scowling. "Damn."

"What?"

"I find myself . . . _sympathizing_ with the Matchmaker." He paused. "That nap I was taking, just then? It was dreamless. That hasn't happened to me for a long time. Things must be more dire than I thought."

Harry was quiet. "It's been hours. That's a lot of time to feel quite intimate with the Matchmaker."

"Intimacy," Tom echoed. "Intimacy."

His blue eyes flooded with sudden and rapid realization.

"That's it! That's - _ow_ _."_ Tom's head had snapped up, colliding with the lid. The pain that ruptured through his scalp only woke him further. Everything was suddenly quite clear, although they were bathed in darkness.

Harry's mouth parted in concern. "Are you alright?"

Tom rubbed the sore spot absently. "I'm fine. It's just - that's the trigger. His motivator. Intimacy."

"A . . . trigger?" Harry glanced around, as if for a bomb or a gun.

"The magic words!" Tom nodded, urgent. He grabbed Harry by the sleeve. "Emotional intimacy. Our profile of the Matchmaker says he - or she - is emotionally touch-starved. 'In the closet', as it were, searching for love, watching others succeed, but unable to do so for themselves. We suspect impotency," he flapped a hand. Harry made an affronted noise. "So, instead, they live vicariously through their matches."

"Tom," Harry interrupted. "That's very astute and all, but how does that help us?"

Tom faltered. Reality seemed to snap back into place. He slumped back down, defeated. "It doesn't. Not without a recording device."

"But . . . just because we couldn't find one, doesn't mean there isn't one," Harry pointed out, encouraging. "You were on a roll there. Come on. Continue. Amuse me."

". . . well," Tom hesitated. "The Matchmaker is the romantic sort, you see. Nearly all the couples who left the coffin are now in a romantic or otherwise close relationship. They formed a bond while buried, and studies show that if you expose yourself to a person long enough - if you disclose enough personal information - you start to empathize with them. Gain an attraction. _Mutual vulnerability fosters closeness,"_ he quoted, lips tugging into a frown. He wasn't big on vulnerability, nor revealing his life story to an almost stranger.

Harry was considering it, wrapping his brain around the concept. "If the Matchmaker was truly watching us somehow, listening in, they would hear us admit things to one another and . . . let us out?"

"The magic words," Tom agreed.

"I mean - if we're going to be trapped down here for a while, it wouldn't hurt to distract one another," Harry latched onto the idea, and Tom could hear the desperateness in his tone. Tom was doubtful. They'd already tried opening up a line of conversation; but as soon as he turned the questions onto Tom, the man shut down.

"Be my guest," Tom granted. "I doubt it'll work."

Harry huffed. "I suppose I'll begin, then, since you're the equivalent of an emotional iceberg?"

"Yes, and you have the intellectual capacity of a toddler," he snapped back. "Over-emotional and annoying to a fault."

Offended, Harry's mouth fell open. "If you're going to be an arse about it," he hissed. "I suppose we'll just stay _trapped_ down here, then -"

"Fine! Fine, just do it," Tom forced out, his teeth gritted. His head pounded like it was about to crack open. He closed his eyes, massaging his temples fervently.

Harry was stubbornly silent for several long minutes. Forcing himself to meet the boy's eyes, Tom softened. "I apologize. Just - please."

Unbidden, a dry, almost hysterical laugh broke from Harry's throat. The floodgates had opened. "Do you want to know what I'm most upset about? Not - not just the fact I'm spending my last few hours alive with a complete and utter toe-rag." Tom bit his tongue to keep from retaliating. "I mean - I'm sorry, that was rude," Harry took in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering shut. "Do you want to know my biggest regret?"

Tom could think of many things. He's been in this line of work long enough to hear criminals on death row reminisce about their regrets and dashed hopes. Harry, however, was no criminal; he was a civilian, and likely had a number of trivial regrets. Tom prepared himself for the worst. A failed relationship, a life's dream set aside -

"Dying a virgin."

The words took a moment to register.

"V - virgin?" Tom repeated, appalled. " _Really?"_ Warmth radiated from Harry's cheeks. Tom quickly cleared his throat. "I mean, you're - what, twenty-something?"

Harry covered his embarrassment with glibness. "A lady never reveals her age."

"Right," Tom let out a disbelieving noise. "So? What's the deal, then?"

He swallowed, Adam's Apple rising. "I - um. I came from a very _conservative_ household," he said, shy. Tom noted he didn't say 'family'. "And if _anyone_ in my town or school knew I was queer, I'd have been treated like a pariah," his words darkened. "Bad enough I was skinny and so unkempt I resembled a delinquent - if they thought I was a faggot, I'd have been . . . " Harry shuddered. "It wouldn't have been good."

"But what about now? You're young, relatively charming, and not - not _ugly."_

Harry side-eyed him. "Glowing compliment from you, I'm sure." He moved awkwardly, turning to face Tom. His slim shoulder brushed the coffin lid, collar slipping aside to reveal a pale, bird-like collarbone and the sharp mound of his Adam's Apple. "I suppose no one really . . . I mean, I've never made that _connection_ with anyone," he confessed. "I always thought - well. My parents loved each other so dearly, they died trying to protect the other."

Tom could detect a sharp, bitter undertone.

The boy took in another breath, forcing back the tears that seemed constantly on the verge of spilling over. "I want a love like that. Not deadly," His eyes became glazed, like chipped shards of an emerald. "But a love that _transcends_ life and death."

Tom's lips twitched. " _Most people_ would simply say they want someone tall, or with nice breasts, or - "

"Sorry," Harry released a breathy laugh. "I know it's rather high standards. I just - I see others around me falling in and out of love so quickly, I wonder how their hearts can handle all that pain. Constantly breaking, never healing all the way. My heart hasn't been broken yet, and I hope it never does," he said grimly. "I – I have a friend, Ginny, who lived right next door to her 'one true love' her entire life. They've been friends forever, but when they began school, my friend fancied herself the other's 'protector'. Ginny got jealous so easily. She would arrange 'incidents' where she was the only one Luna could rely on. A shoulder to cry on. Like - " Harry rolled his head back, trying to think of an example. "Luna was bullied rather mercilessly by the other girls. Sometimes, her clothes and shoes were stolen and thrown over poles or phone lines. She would have to borrow Ginny's clothes, and I suppose Ginny liked the whole . . . marking your territory aspect of it."

Tom made a disgusted noise, and Harry tended to agree. "I caught her - my friend - burning some of Luna's clothes. Hiding them in places Luna would never look. She was the bully, the whole time."

"That's awful," Tom grimaced. "Not to mention twisted. And they're _together_?"

"I'm not actually certain," Harry admitted. "They're on and off. They love each other, certainly, but . . . it's a toxic sort of love. The thing is, love shouldn't be like that," he shook his head, black curls bouncing and tangling with splinters of wood. "It should be a partnership of equals - my friend never understood that." He sounded pained.

"Perhaps that's what the Matchmaker wants," Tom mused, fingers curling unconsciously around the hem of Harry's shirt. "To make his couples _flirt_ with death, _liberating_ them of their sins through rebirth. They return to life hand-in-hand, as two parts of a whole," his gaze flickered at Harry. The boy's eyes were wide. Disbelieving. (Dare he hope it, _smitten_.) "Sharing an experience so profound that no one else could _ever_ understand. Forging a true, unbreakable connection . . . "

They were so close, breathing in the same air. Tom's gaze began to drift down to Harry's pink, bitten lips.

" - Forging a connection," he continued. "You'd have to be _dead_ not to notice."

The words echoed. They almost reverberated, loud in the coffin's silence.

Tom winced. "I sound like a nutter, don't I?"

Harry sucked in a quick breath and forced a stiff smile. "No. Not - not at all." His head twitched in an almost sad shake. "We've been down here a while, Tom," he whispered. "I was thinking it too. And I always did my best thinking while trapped in a space no larger than a cupboard under the stairs."

Tom blinked at the highly specific analogy. Harry seemed to recognize the confusion, biting his lip again.

"Let's just say this isn't my first time under duress. My claustrophobia isn't irrational."

"Tell me," Tom urged. "Please."

Harry, after a moment, indulged him. "My relatives, who took me in after my parent's death, used to lock me away when I did something they . . . didn't approve of. I had to make _no noise and pretend I didn't exist,"_ the words came like a mantra. His voice was thick with disgust and self-loathing. "All I had to entertain myself was an old, musty Bible and some broken toy soldiers. I made friends with the spiders and pretended they were the reincarnated spirits of my parents, reading to me before bed."

"What did they read?" Tom said gingerly. He watched the path of a tear trail down Harry's cheek.

"They'd . . . they'd read about love, loss and tragedy. Fighting for what you believe in. _'Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love him._ James, 1:12," Harry recited, words dripping with derision. "My father's name was James. I suppose you could say he and my mother _stood the test,_ as it were. They died during a burglary-turned homicide when I was just a baby. I have nightmares of them pleading for each other's lives. Begging for me to live."

' _Lily . . . I'll hold him off . . . Take me, not him! James! Please, have mercy . . . I'll do anything.'._

"They stood the test, but were . . . rejected the gift of living," he spat, breathing heavy. "If there is a God, he's a sick bastard. The Matchmaker, too," Harry added, almost an afterthought. His tone was bitter. "He must be deluding himself with some God complex. His intentions might be good, but still just as _sick_ to the core." Harry choked on the words, lifting a trembling hand to his cheeks, wet tears staining his sleeve. "At least if we die down here, the company will have been worth it."

A backhanded compliment, if Tom ever heard one. But there were certainly worse people to be trapped in a coffin with than an attractive, relatively quick-witted, although horrifically damaged man like Harry.

Tom glared at the lid, cursing his pounding heart and fighting the urge to comfort the not-so stranger before him.

"We're not going to die down here, Harry. I promise," he said darkly. Green eyes met his. "Don't you worry."

* * *

Tonks tapped her pen anxiously against the desktop, a persistent, unrelenting beat.

She swiped her tongue across her front teeth, tasting coffee. "I'm sorry sir, you cannot file a missing person's report until twenty-four hours after the fact. I'm certain your daughter will turn up," Tonks said to the anxious man on the phone. "Yessir, yes," she sighed, pulling a pad of paper toward her. "I will do everything in my capability to find her. Come in today with a recent photo and a description and - "

The door burst open. Tonks nearly dropped the phone. "Where's Kingsley? We just got radioed," Diggle rushed through the precinct, water droplets flying off his uniform. It was lightly raining outside, a roll of thunder on the horizon.

Kingsley, who had been standing by the coffee machine, glanced up.

His eyes were bloodshot and his uniform in disarray. Tonks wondered vaguely where his tie had gotten up to. "What is it, Diggle?"

"A trucker spotted two men outside of the Forest of Dean," Diggle panted. "One of them is claiming to be Detective Chief Inspector Riddle. He says he was abducted by the Matchmaker."

The precinct was silent, struggling to grasp at the implication. It took only a moment for them to burst into action.

Tonks' finger crept toward the phone's switch hook. "I'll have to refer you to the Missing Person's unit, Mister Lovegood," she said softly. "Yes, yes. Good day." She hung up just as Diggle finished debriefing.

" - they're alright, only mildly wounded, but - "

Kingsley swore, dropping his cup into the trash. "Still, the Forest of Dean is two hours out. Get an EMT to their location _stat_ and somebody – Tonks – call Tom's mother. Tell her Tom has been found, and he's safe, but don't you _dare_ reveal any more. This information isn't leaving this precinct, am I clear _?"_ Tonks blinked at him. "Am I _clear_?

"Oh, yes sir!"

Kingsley scrubbed his face, letting out a raspy sigh, before disappearing into his office.

Tonks was not looking forward to contacting the Riddle-Gaunt matriarch. From what she's heard at the water cooler, Merope was quite the force to be reckoned with. Even in a wheelchair.

Flicking back a strand of brown hair, the tips dyed a conservative pale pink, Tonks dialed Tom's emergency contact.

The phone rang for a good minute before the line clicked. Tonks cleared her throat. "Ms. Gaunt?" Her fingers curled around the pen, ready to tap again.

"No, dear, this is Madam Pomfrey," a woman said, her tone warm. She reminded Tonks of her mother, all fresh-baked pies and soft hugs. Tonks immediately felt herself relax. "I'm Ms. Gaunt's nurse. Who is this? Is this one of Tom's little friends?"

' _Little friends'_ , Tonks mouthed, astonished. God, the sheer _intel_ she could get from this woman, all of Tom's embarrassing secrets - maybe even a baby photo that Tonks could photocopy and plaster across the locker room. Tonks shook herself. Priorities. "Uh - yes. I'm one of his coworkers; Officer Tonks." There was a rustle.

"Officer?" Pomfrey said, suddenly on alert. "Something's happened, hasn't it?"

"It's alright, ma'am," Tonks soothed, leaning forward in her chair. "Detective Sergeant Shacklebolt wanted me to inform you that Tom has been found - he's alive. Safe. Wounded, but only mildly," she admitted.

"Where _was_ that boy? Oh, Merope - Tom's alright!" Pomfrey pulled back from the receiver. She repeated herself, tearful. "We want to know, where was he?"

"He was found outside the Forest of Dean with another man - we suspect they were victims of the Matchmaker, but that's only speculation, " Tonks hurried to assure as the woman's breath caught. "He's fine. Absolutely fine."

It was a lie. She didn't know for certain, but if she knew Tom, he was a tough son of a bitch.

"That 'bitch' happens to be my charge, Officer Tonks," Pomfrey said, strained.

Tonks flushed. "I - er," she stumbled over the words. "I didn't mean to say that out loud. But honestly - we'll take care of him, ma'am."

"I'll make sure to tell Merope that," Pomfrey bit out. "Damn woman keeps trying to snatch the phone from me," she mumbled. "Down, girl."

Tonks choked back a laugh. Her eyes darted up as Kingsley darted through, his uniform buttoned and a taser strapped to his waist. She placed a hand over the receiver. "What's that for?" She nodded at his belt "Think the Matchmaker's still out there?"

"No," Kingsley said, grim. "The Matchmaker is long gone. If it even was him."

Tonks sat straight, quickly muttering a goodbye to Madam Pomfrey. "What do you mean, _if_ it was him?"

"I mean," Kingsley snatched a police hat off a hook and plopped it onto his bald head. "Tom and his match _dug_ their way out, according to Diggle. That shouldn't have been an option. The Matchmaker should've tipped us off by now, so either he's getting brazen, bored or careless. Either way," He zipped up his jacket. "Copycat or the real deal, we're nipping this in the bud. Find out everything you can about 'Harry Potter'," he said, lips curling. "The other victim. The sooner we figure out his and Tom's 'connection', the sooner we can trace the Matchmaker to them."

Dutifully, Tonks jotted down the name. She blinked down at it. "Wait - no," Tonks stood abruptly. She bumped her desk, pencil cup rattling. "I'm coming with you."

"You _aren't,_ " Kingsley said sternly. "I want my best man on this - woman, that is. As for the rest of you, I want all hands on deck! Drudge out all the interview tapes, Grindelwald's interrogation, evidence bags - the works. I don't _care_ how you all feel about our esteemed Detective Chief," Kingsley whirled around, barking at his moaning subordinates.

"That was one of _our men_ buried alive for a whole fucking day, while we were in here safe and cozy, _dicking_ around. We failed him, but the Matchmaker made a _mistake_ messing with the DLE," he said, furious. "And we're gonna get that cowardly bitch behind bars for it, am I right?"

There was a long, pregnant pause. His coworkers glanced at each other dubiously. Someone let out a slight cough.

Tonks, eyes glinting, let out a whoop. She moved around her desk to slap Kingsley on the back. "Give 'em hell for us, Kings," she said, pushing him toward the door. "And give Tommy our love."

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**


	6. The Lost Girl

****_The Matchmaker_****

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **VI:**

 ** _The Lost Girl_**

Several hours later, reality caught up like a rabid dog on a hunt, messy and mad.

Tom certainly felt like a mess.

His mind seemed to buzz, and although he was bone-tired, a sense of duty and pure spite kept Tom on his feet. He blinked the sunspots from his eyes and gestured vaguely at the pile of dirt sticking out of the weeds. "That's it," Tom said with a weary sigh. It had taken him an hour to lead the police back to the excavation site. He'd gotten lost twice, before finally finding his way to the clearing. Squinted as though in pain, blue eyes trailed across the weeds and the splintered wood, spotting a faint trickle of Harry's blood. Tom shook his head stiffly. "That's where the son of a bitch put us."

Time passed slowly as forensics quarantined the area, using a crane to excavate the coffin. Or what remained of it. Tom took the opportunity, leaning against a land rover they'd borrowed from the park reservation, to fill out his victim statement. He hated it; the word 'victim', like he was some damsel in distress. He wasn't. He was anything but.

 _Sucking in a deep breath, Tom grabbed the bottom of his shirt and lifted it over his mouth. "We're going to break the lid," he said, nudging Harry to do the same. "It'll take both of us working together. Do you think you can manage it?"_

 _Harry blinked. "N – now? We're doing this now?"_

 _"Unless you'd prefer to stay? The accommodations aren't great - "_

 _"Stop with the snark. I'm ready."_

When the EMTs had arrived, taking Harry away and leaving Tom to deal with the police, they'd tried to give him a shock blanket. Tom gave the first responder a look that could and has inspired even hardened veterans to turn tail.

His stomach was all in knots, twisted and burning, but he adamantly kept going. He waited with the local police until Kingsley and the cavalry arrived, forensics in tow, and reporters not far out. Rita Skeeter had beat them to the crime scene, having heard of his recovery from god knows where - likely their mole. It took Kingsley threatening her with 'obstruction of justice' to give them some damn space, although Tom knew she was just _waiting_ for him to emerge from the Forest of Dean.

He supposed he'd have to go to the hospital eventually; his mother would force him to, no doubt. Tom had borrowed Kingsley's phone and called her immediately, but the signal was poor, and - truthfully - Tom really could not stand getting lectured right now. It wasn't as though she could _really_ 'march right down there and teach that psychopath a lesson'.

Tom pursed his lips, staring down at the police report. As much as he wanted to write 'none of your business' in each blank slot, Tom was above all else a professional. He tried to recall their time in the coffin. It was easy, seeing as the memory of green eyes and a soft voice was burnt into his brain. Determined, Tom licked the tip of his pen and put it to paper.

 _"Shirt up," Tom beckoned._

 _Harry gave a soft laugh as he wiggled his shirt up to his mouth. "At least take me on a date before asking me to strip."_

 _Lucky for Tom, his shirt covered his blush. "You're a smart mouth, you know that? Regardless," Tom pressed on. "Brace your feet against the middle of the lid. And don't say a word about flexibility."_

 _"I wasn't gonna," Harry defended. "I think you're the one who needs to get his mind out of the gutter."_

 _"Let's worry about getting out of this coffin, first," Tom grunted, pulling back his knees. "On the count of three, we're going to push until it cracks. The coffin is going to fill with dirt, and we're going to have to shove the dirt to the sides of our bodies. Fair warning; if we're buried any deeper than six feet, we're going to die," he said bluntly. "If not – we should be able to stand, so long as our mouths and nose are covered. Alright?"_

 _Harry's breathing picked up. "No! That's a lot of information to process, Tom. What – what if we get trapped under here? What if we suffocate?"_

 _"I am not going to let that happen," Tom said firmly. He watched verdant green eyes flutter shut. "We're going to live. We're going to make it out alive, and once we do," Memorizing Harry's features in the dark, Tom took the chance. "I'm going to kiss you. How's that for incentive?"_

Tom lifted his head as Kingsley approached. The man looked haggard, exhausted. _You're exhausted?_ Tom thought in exasperation. _Try living my life for a day._

"Finished?" Kingsley spoke gruffly.

Nodding, Tom glanced over the statement for spelling errors. He had glossed over their conversations within the coffin, outlining the only two important events; the woman in the alley and chloroform-soaked rag. She was the closest connection Tom had to the Matchmaker; he would find that damn wench if it killed him.

Kingsley eyed him closely, startled by the fury in Tom's eyes.

". . . Good," he hedged. He brushed off the unease. "I've sent a man to follow Mr. Potter to the hospital for his statement. Are you certain you'll not be joining him at Saint Mungo's?" Tom gave him a deadpan look and violently capped his pen. Kingsley sighed. "Of course. Well, I called for a car. We've got you set up in a motel so you can wash up and rest before heading back. "

Tom stood straighter. Exactly. A little thing like live burial wasn't about to set Tom back from investigating the bastard -

"Heading back _home_ , Tom," Kingsley finished. "Your mother worries."

"I spoke with her," Tom said sharply. "She's fine, trust me. I _need_ to be on this case, Kingsley," A wet, misty breeze brushed his dirty fringe off his forehead. His eyes seemed manic, pupils blown.

Kingsley spoke sternly. "It's a conflict of interest, and you know that. You should take a break, maybe a sabbatical - for your own mental health, if not my own."

 _"Screw_ that. You want me mentally sound? Let me get some closure. I know this case inside and out - quite literally. I'm your best chance at catching the Matchmaker," he pounded a fist on the Range Rover. "Remember, I'm _your_ superior, Kingsley. I can make your life hell." Tom aimed the pen at Kingsley's chest, body tense. "We may be colleagues but we sure as hell aren't equals."

Kingsley's jaw trembled, but he refused to step back. "Sir - "

"I'm not repeating myself." Tom folded the statement and slipped it into Kingsley's front pocket. "If you have any further questions, you'll know where to find me."

Even as he stalked away, Kingsley staring at his back, Tom's mind wandered. His mind kept going back to that moment - when he made his attraction clear, when they were on the verge of getting out - and he'd tossed away all semblance of propriety just to see Harry smile.

 _"I'm going to kiss you. How's that for incentive?"_

 _Harry's eyes shot open. Tom's heartbeat thumped in quick succession, and he prepared for rejection - Harry, however, smiled, his eyes crinkling._

 _"Why didn't you just say so? I'm ready when you are, Tom."_

 _Tom couldn't help the smirk that crossed his features. He forced it away just as swiftly as it had appeared. "Alright, on the count of three, we push," He turned away, brows furrowing in concentration. "One - two - three - push!"_

 _The lid groaned and creaked under their efforts, Harry grunting lightly beside him. "Push!" Tom growled. Sweat dripped down his brow. "Push!"_

 _"What, were you a midwife in a past life?" Harry snapped back, bracing one hand against the lid while the other held his shirt up. With a groan, the wood cracked, the nails popping. Tom pushed harder, and within seconds, the coffin collapsed. Someone screamed._

He stalked his way through the brush, meeting Diggle at the edge of the forest. Diggle led him to the car.

The ride was silent, contemplative, though Tom could sense Diggle was bursting with questions.

Tom met his gaze in the rearview mirror and gave Diggle a withering look. The man's fingers tightened on the steering wheel and Diggle remained blissfully silent.

Finally able to breathe, Tom leaned his forehead against the cool window. A low soreness spread across his limbs, as though he'd gone through a puree machine. His eyelids wavered, before slipping shut. He rested fitfully the rest of the way, his memories serving as prime nightmare material.

 _Dirt flooded the casket, their vision consumed with black. Dry soil brushed their skin as they shoved the dirt aside, standing shakily. Gasping and writhing, they pulled themselves up through the rainstorm of dirt._ _Tom's hands clawed at the grass. Hoisting himself onto land, he coughed up dirt, his throat dry and eyes watery. "Harry," he croaked out, blinking rapidly. "Harry!"_ _Scrambling back to the hole, he grappled blindly for Harry's arm, hearing the boy let out a pained shriek. "I've got you," Tom pulled him out, shoving the boy onto the grass._ _"I've got you."_

 _Even with his pale skin splotched with dirt and eyes burning red, Harry looked – in a word – radiant._

 _The diminishing sunlight was soft and warm, and if Tom was a believer, he would say this is what heaven felt like._

 _Hiding his grimace in the grass, Harry pawed at his upper arm. Tom noticed a rip in the sleeve and a shallow cut on his forearm. Harry's blood coated his hands from where he'd grabbed him. "I cut myself on a nail," Harry said, face scrunched in pain. "Fuck, that's probably infected."_

 _"You'll be fine," Tom said, his heart thumping in his throat. He couldn't help his gaze from lingering on the boy's dirty, dry lips. God, how he wanted to make good on his promise. "We'll get an EMT out here to stitch you up."_

 _Harry grimaced, glancing back at the hole. "My phone's down there."_

 _"Insurance will buy you a new one," Tom said dismissively, although it would've been nice to call Kingsley and get forensics down here. "Do you even have insurance?"_

 _"Mm," Harry paused. He looked down at his bloodied, dirtied hands. "No. Slughorn doesn't believe in hospitals."_

 _"Let me guess, he believes in healing balms and herbs?" Tom grunted, rising to his feet. "Because we've got a lot of weeds out here that might work," They were in the middle of a clearing, a collonade of trees surrounding them. "Fuck," Tom whispered. "We could be anywhere."_

 _Harry struggled to get to his feet, vertigo hitting him hard. He squinted, the sudden exposure to light painful. Tom lifted a hand as if to steady him, but hesitated, afraid to hurt the boy._ _Harry righted himself and stared up at the clouds. "It's around twilight," he said, almost subdued. "There might be some people headed home from work_ , _if we find a road."_

 _With a stiff jerk of his head, Tom nodded. He wiped the dirt from his clothes. "Well, we know we weren't the only ones out here. Whoever stuffed us underground might've left some tracks. They had to drag our bodies and get the coffin out here somehow. Let's start there."_

 _Slightly amused by Tom's logic, Harry pointed at the trampled, muddied grass. He regretted it, as pain lanced up his arm. "That way, then." He scowled, rotating his shoulder. "That hurt."_

 _With a sudden rip, Tom tore off a piece of his clean(er) undershirt. "Come 'ere."_

 _Harry shuffled over and allowed Tom to gingerly wrap the wound, blood bubbling up from the cut. He wound it tightly, efficiently._

 _Harry winced. "Thanks."_ _He didn't pull away. Tom could see the dirt dangling from his eyelashes, green eyes watery._

 _The boy determinedly did not cry, and Tom - Tom wanted to cry, too. But he refrained._

 _"Anytime," Tom said, almost breathless. He swallowed tightly. Regret tasted strongly of soil and brine. "Shall we?"_

Tom jerked awake as the engine cut off.

The rookie was swift to open Tom's door, prepared to escort the man inside. Heart thumping rapidly, Tom dismissed the man's efforts, achingly clambering out of the car. The motel was plain and rustic, clearly designed as a one-night stay for hunters trekking through the Forest of Dean. Tom avoided the main lobby altogether, as Diggle palmed over a key and shoved a duffle bag into his arms. "Kingsley had me grab some essentials," he mumbled, the wild-haired, usually exuberant man unsure of how to act around Tom - was he a victim of a heinous crime, or was he _Detective Chief Inspector Riddle,_ Diggle's uncompromising, tough, jaded boss? He clearly had trouble reconciling the two ideas.

Tom made it easy for the man.

"Thank you, Diggle," Tom said gruffly, hoisting the bag in his trembling arms. "Now get out of my sight. I expect an update every three hours," he warned.

Diggle paused. "We didn't retrieve your cell phone, sir."

"Well. Get me a new one, then."

Diggle lingered, biting his lip. Tom's eyed narrowed. Were his colleagues always this incompetent, or were they - god forbid, _worried_ about him?

"I'll be alright, Diggle," he told the man, smoothing his expression. "You did well today."

Diggle's flighty eyes met Tom's with a surprised, almost shocked look. "Not well enough, sir. You were still . . . " he trailed off, bushy brows drawing. "Kingsley's giving us the guilt trip. I think _he_ thought this could have been prevented if we were better detectives."

Tom paused, feeling a peculiar, warm sensation that he associated with sunshine and laughing green eyes. Pleasure, he distantly identified the feeling. Gratefulness. He thought back to Kingsley's dark, concerned gaze and strange insistence that Tom take time off. "He's incorrect," Tom spoke brusquely. "If the Matchmaker was intent on making me a victim, it would have happened regardless of your - or even _my -_ training. And perhaps this is for the better." Tom moved awkwardly, shifting the bag in his arms. "At least now we have a better idea of what the Matchmaker wants."

"Did you - did you have a break in the case, sir?" Diggle asked, almost probing.

A short, strangled laugh erupted from Tom's throat. "Both a literal and figurative breakthrough, Diggle," he said. "Let me sleep on it, and I'll . . . " he sighed, closing his eyes. "And tomorrow, we'll be one step closer to catching him," _'that_ _bastard'_ lingered on Tom's tongue, but somehow it didn't settle quite right.

Bidding Diggle _adieu,_ Tom slipped into the motel room, relishing in the clean air.

An hour passed.

Twining the cream-colored, rubber cord around his finger, Tom finally succumbed and dialed St. Mungo's. After rattling off his police ID number in a gruff, no-nonsense tone, Tom was patched over to Harry's physician. "He's stable and resting," the woman told him softly. There was only so much she could tell him, but Tom had made _quite_ clear that he would keep calling until he received an update on Harry's health. "We treated him for dehydration and shock. We had to administer a tetanus shot for that nasty scrape on his arm. We've decided to monitor him for another day, but Mr. Potter will be absolutely alright, sir. Don't you worry," she soothed.

Tom maneuvered his sore body onto the uncomfortable hotel bed. He'd borrowed a spare change of clothes while his suit was dry-cleaned, courtesy of the hotel. He was dressed in a cotton shirt and boxers, but neither were the correct size. The shirt was a bit baggy on his shoulders, while the shorts brushed against his kneecaps.

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"And . . . mentally?" he bit out. "Has he shown any signs of trauma?"

The physician paused, and he could hear the pity in her voice. "We've suggested numerous resources for therapy, but he's turned them all down. I suppose you'll just have to ask him yourself, won't you, detective? I can put you on the visitor's list - "

Tom winced. "No. No, thank you," he coughed. "That won't be necessary."

As he lay in bed, in the darkness, he turned on his side and tried not to imagine a warm body beside him, tired green eyes staring into his.

* * *

' _. . . victim claimed to have been attacked by woman, sized around 5'5, features indistinguishable - '_

 _'Traces of chloroform were swabbed from around the mouth . . . '_

Tom flipped through his paperwork, face drawn in an exasperated growl. He had already read and reread the report numerous times, his bloodshot eyes drifting across the document. Most of it was useless jargon or things Tom already _knew._ _'_ _No recording device was found at the excavation site, a stray from the unsub's M.O.'_

Shoving away from his desk, Tom shucked off his suit jacket. It was far too warm in his office, and he resisted adjusting the thermostat. He'd already changed it three times today, first because it was too warm, then too cold, and back again. Tom wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, brow furrowing at the glistening droplet. Was he coming down with something?

He wiped the sweat onto his dress-shirt, but when he pulled his hand back, it was dirtier than before.

Tom stared down at himself.

He was covered in dirt, his clothing absolutely _filthy -_ why hadn't anyone told him he was a mess?

Tom anxiously tried to shake the soil from his skin, but everytime he brushed it away, more collected. Dirt was falling, cascading, from the roof, which had cracked open with a large groan. The room was suddenly too small, too confining, too dark. He was in a coffin - he'd always been in a coffin, he'd never been in his office -

And he was alone.

He called out Harry's name, pounding against the coffin's lid. Dirt was filling the coffin quickly and although he tried, he couldn't seem to move it aside fast enough. He was suffocating under the weight of it, his mouth open in a silent scream. Tom choked, gasped, cried, pleaded - _"Harry!"_

But the green-eyed boy never came. With a thundering _snap,_ the coffin broke, and Tom was enveloped with darkness.

His eyes snapped open.

Heaving out a breath, cold air met his skin. A window was open, the smell of sage and geraniums drifting into his bedroom.

It was just a dream.

Skin coated with sweat, Tom pulled himself out of bed. He lifted long-fingered, quivering hands to his face, feeling unconsciously for the dirt that had seemed to enter his every pore and infiltrate his lungs. He was clean. He was safe.

Raking a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, Tom nodded to himself. "You're fine, you son of a bitch," he told himself harshly. "You're alive."

The night terror - for that's what it was - was a recurring one. It had been a week since the _unfortunate incident_ (as his mother liked to call it, denial clearly hereditary), and Tom doubted he slept more than a few hours each night. That was alright. Poppy had left him a cup of coffee in anticipation. It was kept warm by a thermos. Tom took a grateful sip of it. The warmth suffused his system, bringing him to full awareness.

He tried not to make noise as he pulled his laptop computer out from under his bed. He flipped the lid open and logged in, wincing at the webpage left open from the night before.

He'd taken to stalking Harry on social media, finding _Slug & Jigger's _online web page, where sales, bargains and the occasional link to interesting botanic journals were shared. It was clear the site was run by Harry. Tom suspected Horace Slughorn was as useless with the internet as Tom was with . . . _feelings._

Harry didn't have a Facebook or MySpace page - or whatever the youth constituted as communication these days - but the _Slug & Jiggers _site at least served as a slice of Harry's personality.

Tom had the _'About Us'_ page open. He scrolled past Horace Slughorn's long-winded synopsis of his hopes and dreams, (' _Slug & Jiggers seeks to reconnect our community with nature through the use of botany, raw materials and ancient philosophical practices . . . ' ), _finding a small picture of Harry.

'Employee of the Month', it read, and Harry's crooked grin clearly showed his amusement. Harry was Slughorn's _only_ employee. The picture was a few years old, as Harry's riotous locks were shorter and his features softer. But he had the same glasses and the same sparkling green eyes.

Tom felt a pang of regret.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Tom quickly minimized the tab and opened a his email.

He was surprised to see a message from Tonks, sent at one in the morning. She was up late at night, concerned about a missing person's case that had been opened the same day Tom and Harry were found. Frowning, Tom opened the attached picture. _'Luna Lovegood,'_ it said. _'Age 24, reported missing by her father, Xenophilius -'_

"Motherfucker," Tom hissed, sitting up straight in bed.

He recognized the girl; although the one time they'd been acquainted, her hair had been matted and her cheeks stained with tears. She'd been grasping the hand of another girl, Ginevra Weasley if he was not mistaken -

Right after Lovegood and Weasley were released from the Matchmaker's clutches.

Luna Lovegood was missing, again, and this time there were no leads. She was seen last by a friend, Neville Longbottom, who nervously explained that Luna had headed back to her shared apartment with the Weasley girl.

Luna hadn't been seen since.

Tonks had investigated the case personally and found Ginny holed up at her parent's home in Ottery St. Catchpole. The Weasleys were a stern, fiercely protective sort. They hadn't appreciated the police coming to investigate their baby girl, but Ginny had emerged from her room, tearful but brave.

Tonks had sat with her at the dining table, a plate of biscuits angrily slammed down beside her. Molly Weasley was a helicopter parent, no doubt, but left when Ginny asked.

With permission, Tonks was allowed to record their conversation. Tom clicked the audio file.

 _"Where were you on the night of - "_

 _"Drop that whole Sherlock Holmes spiel, would you?"_ Ginny had interrupted, exasperated. " _I'll tell you what I know, but I swear, I'm so sick and tired of the DLE. You guys harassed me and Luna for weeks after the whole Matchmaker thing, and then Rita Skeeter got all up in our business. I work with the woman, isn't that torture enough? Can't we just be left alone?"_ she was close to begging.

 _"I wish we could,"_ Tonks told her gently. _"But this isn't about the Matchmaker, Ginny. This is about your friend, Miss Lovegood - "_

 _"Girlfriend,"_ Ginny emphasized, sharp. _"We're dating. Or - we were."_

 _"Past tense, hm?"_

 _"She . . . I think she's cheating on me. With that stupid, anxiety-ridden, dough-faced boy, no less,"_ she grumbled. _"The day she - the day she went missing, we had fought. I admit it. But she left our apartment and - "_ Ginny shook her head. _"I haven't heard from her since. I_ _couldn't stand being alone in our apartment, so I came here, and this is where I've been for days - surrounded by my mother's love and her excellent cooking,"_ she took a violent bite of a biscuit, the crunching loud and obnoxious. _"I've been to work, too, so that attests for my location during the day. I've got an alibi, officer, and I intend to use it."_

Tonks pressed on. _"So . . . you haven't seen her? Haven't gotten a call, a text, anything?"_

 _"Luna probably just got distracted or went on holiday, "_ the girl sniffed dismissively, reluctant fondness creeping into her voice. _"She's always had her head in the clouds, but she_ always _finds her way back home. Back to me."_

Tom pursed his lips.

Suspicion crept in. The girl was too nonchalant, unworried and flippant. Either she was just a bitch or -

He rewound the audio recording, pressing play just before Ginny's final statement. _'She_ always _finds her way back to me.'_ The possessiveness in her tone shook him. That obsessive, almost _raging_ love - it was terrifying. And familiar.

Weren't Ginny and Harry friends? Peculiar that they were both victims of the Matchmaker.

Mind racing, Tom typed _'Gilderoy Lockhart'_ into the search engine. He knew that out of all the Matchmaker's victims, Lockhart was the closest to a celebrity. There _had_ to be news on him.

And damn it, there was.

Tom clawed a hand down his mouth.

 _'Honeymoon Turned Deadly.'_ Rita Skeeter's article began with a photo of Lockhart, blue eyes tearful and his golden-skinned body donned in a fashionable black suit. _'Drug bust. . . '_ Tom skimmed the article, _'arrest of veteran Alastair Moody'_ _. . . 'human shield' . . . 'til death do we part'._

Apparently _, 'Mundungus Fletcher hadn't changed his ways in the least. The former veteran was found buying drugs from former General Alastair 'Mad-Eye' Moody, using Lockhart's hard-earned money to fuel his cocaine addiction._ _The Spanish police had been on Moody's trail for weeks - so much for 'constant vigilance' - and interrupted his deal with Fletcher. Faced down with a dozen guns and red dots pinpointing his chest, Moody moved fast, shoving Dung in front of him as a human shield._

 _. . . The man's body was littered with bullets; he bled out before the EMT could arrive.'_

Tom felt a bit . . . ill. He had no sympathy for drug addicts, but - staring at Lockhart's despondent, broken-hearted photo - he couldn't the tingle of sympathy.

 _'Olive Hornby,'_ he tried next. Last he heard, Hornby and the plain-faced barista - Myrtle, was it? - were in a loving girl-on-girl relationship. Tom snorted at Hornby's Facebook page. _Relationship: Complicated,_ it said. The most recent post was of Olive and a handsome, long-haired man attending a fancy dinner. She looked unhappy with his hand placed possessively at the small of her back.

Myrtle's Facebook was much, _much_ worse, filled with quotes about sadness, betrayal, and pain. _'Just when you thought you found the love of your life, they tear out your heart and stamp on it with their high-heeled Jimmy Choos.'_

The sentiment was sickening, but Tom got the point.

Is this what the Matchmaker did? Twisted his victims' love and affection for one another until they ruined each other's lives? Led women to cheat and led men to their death? _Grindelwald and Dumbledore were just quicker to the uptake,_ Tom realized dully.

Was this what awaited Tom and Harry? Would they eventually come to despise one another, spitting hateful words and taunts, until one of them snapped and -

He couldn't finish the thought.

"Occam's razor," Tom told himself, trying in vain to calm his rapidly beating heart. "The simplest solution is often the correct one."

They would just avoid each other. Simple as that. They would keep their time in the coffin in the past, where it belonged.

It shouldn't be too difficult.

They led such different lives; Tom as a Detective Chief Inspector, accomplished and respected, Harry as an apothecary apprentice. He would just - have to avoid _Slug & Jiggers, _then.

Tom winced, thinking of his mother. She _needed_ her medication, damn it.

Clenching a fist, he returned to the _Slug & Jiggers _tab, quickly clicking away from Harry's face. He went to the menu tab, face twisted in determination. It said it right there - they delivered packages. It would cost a bit more, sure, but . . . it was worth it.

Wasn't it?

Tom was most certainly beginning to panic.

He took another sip of his coffee, barely able to keep his hands from shaking.

As a member of the DLE, it was difficult to ignore the constant mantra of _protect and serve, protect and serve_ from his mind. Avoiding Harry would difficult, painful - achingly so - but it would have to be done. For Harry's own protection.

Deep down, Tom knew that if he pursued this strange infatuation with the other man, it would only end in tears and heartbreak. He knew, that out of the two of them, Tom was the darker one. Harry deserved so much better than a bitter old man; Harry deserved the world. He deserved someone who could make him laugh, make his eyes sparkle, make up for the awful childhood he'd had. He deserved the chance to find a love that 'transcended life and death', and Tom knew . . . he couldn't provide that.

 _I barely love myself,_ Tom thought, swallowing the bitter coffee. He leaned his head back against the headboard, thumping his skull against it in a sort of self-flagellation.

How could he ever love Harry the way he deserved?

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**


	7. The Accomplice

****_The Matchmaker_****

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **VII:**

 ** _The Accomplice_**

Stakeouts were easy.

Stakeouts were something Tom could _do._ He could lose himself in the narrowed, single-minded focus of monitoring an individual; tracking their every action and seeing each step as an indication of guilt.

The girl was painfully easy to track. It was a weekday and most civilians returned to their tripe, trivial routines; wake up, get dressed, go to work, have a meal or two, return home. He expected Ginevra Weasley's day to be like any other.

She was still at her mother's house in Ottery St. Catchpole - a ramshackle home that might be considered _cozy_ or _quirky_ ,although Tom certainly wasn't the leading expert on these things. He waited in his car at the end of their very long road, parked behind a tree. His windows were tinted and, although it might be overkill, Tom also wore a pair of sunglasses.

He cradled a cup of coffee in his hands. Notes, files and documents were strewn across the dashboard, his observations and his slowly-growing profile.

While watching a small, turquoise Ford Anglia rumble its way down the road, he spotted two heads of vibrant red through the open window. He put his car into gear, and after waiting the obligatory sixty seconds, slowly crept his way after the Anglia.

The car ahead of him emitted little puffs of black smoke, it's back wheel slightly wobbly. Peering closer, he could tell the back taillight was out, too. "Call it a fixer-upper all you want," Tom muttered to himself. "That damn vehicle is a safety concern."

Remembering his days as a rookie, when he would pull people over for the slightest infraction, Tom suppressed the urge to turn on his flashing lights. He refrained.

"You're supposed to be _incognito,"_ he reminded himself, taking a final sip of his now-empty coffee cup. He tossed the trash into the back seat.

Tom followed a few cars behind the Ford Anglia, nearly losing it on the highway as it sped up. He eventually caught up to it as it pulled up beside a tall, wide office building. Eyes catching on the large sign plastered to the building's glistening shell, Tom sank into his seat.

"Bugger," he muttered, and flawlessly parallel parked against the curb.

He was hoping it wouldn't come to this.

Ginny, he recalled from his research, was a sport's reporter for London's frontier yellow press. _The Daily Prophet_ was a blemish on quality journalism and Rita Skeeter was its nefarious queen bee - but damn if she didn't have good sources.

The Ford Anglia pulled over beside the front doors. A heeled shoe stepped onto the concrete, followed by a long, freckled leg donned in a flattering pencil skirt. Ginny was a rather attractive woman. She had a sunny complexion and a veritable mane of healthy orange hair pulled into a braid. A leather bookbag was slung over her arm, held protective against her side. Her peach-colored blouse caught the wind, a ribbon fluttering over her shoulder as she gave her father a soft, thankful smile.

Despite the smile, her eyes were hard.

Something seemed oddly familiar about her. Was it those shrewd brown eyes or was the way she held herself - confident, like an animal on the prowl?

Tom frowned to himself and grappled for his laptop on the passenger seat beside him. He sent Tonks an instant message, and she gave him access to the _Daily Prophet's_ inner security camera feeds.

Tom settled in for a long, long day.

* * *

A sharp rap came at the window. Tom resisted a violent flinch. He lifted his head from the computer on his lap and was faced with a blur of acidic green. He slammed the computer shut, wondering how he missed the queen bee herself approaching him.

The woman's outfit was, in a word, atrocious. The pantsuit might be considered sophisticated or haute couture, if it hadn't been the color of a ripe lime and trimmed with red, making her appear like a Christmas ornament. The blazer's plunging neckline revealed pale breasts powdered with make-up. Tom resisted a slight gag as she pressed herself against the glass.

Rita Skeeter blinked owlishly at him, her curled, false lashes batting together behind cat-eye glasses. Tom lowered himself into the seat, hoping against hope -

"I see you in there!" she sang out. "Might as well come out before I call the police," Rita recommended, before pausing. "Unless this _is_ the police?"

Tom hissed beneath his breath and quickly shoved all his papers out of sight. Pushing up his sunglasses, for a bit of anonymity, he lowered the window with a dull _whir._

Rita leaned down to beam at him. Her red lips were stretched in mocking facsimile of a charming smile. "Ah! What a lovely face," she purred. Around her neck was a professional camera, and as she moved to snap a picture, Tom's hand darted out to cover the lens. "Don't be camera shy, dear."

"Don't," he warned. With his free hand, he removed his badge and flashed it. Tom ensured she could hear the jangle of handcuffs in his pocket. "No pictures, no comment, _nothing_. This is an official police stakeout, and you - " Tom frowned. "How did you even know I was here?"

"Detective Tom Riddle," Rita sighed. In the smoggy lamplight, her bleach blonde hair glowed, the curls stiff with hairspray. "Let me say. For an esteemed detective, you're not particularly low-profile."

With a jolt, Tom shoved open the car door and backed Rita Skeeter to the curb. He slammed the door behind him with a foot, flashing her his badge. Again. "Detective Chief Inspector Riddle, thank you," he said with gritted teeth. "If you're going to insult me, at least be precise about it. Come here,"

Grabbing her by the elbow, thumb digging into a pressure point, he dragged her into a nearby alley. "If you wanted time alone with me, Tommy, you could've asked," she said coyly, tripping over her heels.

Scanning the area for any eavesdroppers, Tom let her go. He covered his face with his hands and released a sharp growl, facing the wall. "You're a nuisance at the best of times, Rita. Unfortunately for you, this just so happens to be the _worst_ of times. I'm going to ask you one more time. _What_ do you know?"

"Well, to a trained eye, you're being a bit _obvious_. You rented a vehicle with tinted windows, no plates - and," she admitted reluctantly. "I saw you pull up hours ago from my office." Rita flapped a hand toward the ninth floor of the _Daily Prophet_ building. If Tom squinted, he could see an ugly floral curtain wisping in the wind through an open window. "No one exited the car for hours. A little suspicious, no?"

Tom grit his teeth. He knew for a fact Rita wasn't nearly that clever; she _always_ had an inside source. "Who told you?"

Rita batted her eyes innocently. "Don't think I could figure it out on my own, huh, Detective? Afraid someone might trump you in investigative skills?" Unimpressed and refusing to rise to the bait, Tom waited. "Alright, don't look at me like that. In _this_ instance," she paused, put-upon. "I did have an informant, yes. This morning I received a fax from - you know, I'd really love to tell you, but there are shield laws and such," she shrugged a bird-like shoulder. Tom fought the urge to wring her neck. "It told me someone from the station would be staking out my place of work - you have a suspect here, don't you? One of my colleagues? That makes it my business."

"Incorrect, Ms. Skeeter. It's _not_ your business. Although, it _could_ be if I decided to arrest you for obstruction of justice - "

Rita's eyes flashed, and her saccharine demeanor showed a crack. "You and your boys are always threatening me with that," she pulled back. "But you never seem up to the task. It's almost as if you all know that I've solved most of your cases for you - " Tom opened his mouth to protest.

"Or, at the very least, pointed you in the right direction. I could _help_ you, Riddle," she pressed herself against him, desperate enough to proposition herself. Tom drew himself back, hitting the grimy wall. "And you could help me. A little tit-for-tat."

"Now why would I do that?" Tom humored her. "What could I possibly give you that your informant," he spat the word. "Cannot?"

"Well, you're not just Head Detective anymore, are you, Tom? Can I call you Tom? Of course, I can. You're a _survivor,_ Tommy _-_ you lived through the Matchmaker and have insights that even Ginny Weasley," her nose crinkled. "Can't give me."

Tom stiffened. "What do you know about Weasley?"

Rita blinked, baffled. "Well, she's a survivor too, isn't she? A ' _match',"_ her lips curled in an ugly frown. "The girl works at a damn news corporation and won't give me the time of day! Although, on second thought, that _may_ have to do with the party at Doge's where I called sports news the bull-headed, brainless jock strap of journalism," she mused, tapping a sharply pointed nail on her bottom lip. "Point is, we have little respect for one another. But why do _you_ care? Is all - _this - "_ Rita waved a general hand over the car and Tom's suspicious behavior. "Is this all about the missing little girlfriend?"

"No."

"It is!" Rita was overjoyed. She bounced on the heels of her tall, spiked shoes. "I _knew_ something was suspicious about her. After Weasley was kidnapped by the Matchmaker, she missed work for a month on trauma leave. Her girlfriend goes _missing_ , and she barely seems affected! Almost as if - "

"She's trying too hard to be normal," Tom murmured.

"Oh, yes, this is going to work brilliantly. We're practically finishing each other's sentences!"

Blue eyes narrowed. "What else do you know about Weasley?"

"Well, I know a fake cry when I see one," her eyes sparkled behind cat-eye glasses. "Human Resources called Weasley down to ask about her well-being, and I just so _happened_ to be walking by. She acted distraught enough, didn't want to be questioned, but - that's just it, she was _acting._ Weasley's good at that; she was completely unqualified for her position, just out of school, but _acted_ confident and suddenly she's getting all the best interviews!"

Tom, annoyed, tried to pivot. "Focus, Skeeter. She's our leading suspect, but we have little proof as there hasn't been a body - "

"You want proof, huh?" Rita scrambled for her purse, where she pulled out a glossy keycard. "Come with me, then," She snapped the purse closed. "I'll find you some evidence, and in thanks - I suppose you'll just have to owe me a favor. I have a thought," she started sauntering away, heels clicking. "My coworkers will be green with envy once I've published a once-in-a-lifetime interview with Detective Chief Inspector Riddle, _Broken-Hearted Victim of the Matchmaker!"_

"I'm not - brokenhearted - " He started weakly. Conflicted, Tom stared at her swaying back for a good thirty seconds before letting out a long-suffering sigh. "Where are we going?" He said, easily catching up to her with his long strides.

"Weasley's office, of course," Rita said.

Tom opened his mouth to protest, but she shushed him sharply as they reached the glass front doors. They entered a large lobby, decorated in monochrome. The walls were plastered with blown-up copies of old newspapers and black-and-white images of celebrities. Tom recognized The Beatles, Princess Diana, Margaret Thatcher and - Tom winced - Gilderoy Lockhart. The man smoldered down at him.

Thumbing the elevator button, the doors slid open and they stepped inside. Rita flashed the key card over a scanner and with a _beep,_ the doors closed. They slowly rose up to the tenth floor.

" _Where_ did you say we were going?" Tom whispered furiously. "I don't think I heard you right. We're going to the office she's in _right now?"_

"Don't be silly," Rita said, calm in _her_ territory. "She's interviewing some woman athlete over dinner. Gwenog Jones, don't suppose you've heard of her?" Tom did, barely recognizing her as some famous football player. She rolled her eyes. "Yes, apparently it's the interview of the year. Jones rarely allows for private correspondence with the press, and out of all the journalists, she just _had_ to choose Weasley."

"You tried to get an interview, huh?" Tom said, amused.

"I'm not a sports journalist," she sniffed. _But yes,_ Tom took that to mean. "Personally, I think little Ginny has a crush on Gwenog - and once you've seen the shrine she has in her office, you will too," Rita leaned close, conspiratorially. "Moved on a little fast, don't you think?"

Tom's brows pressed together before clearing. "I don't have time for your ridiculous water cooler gossip," he snapped at her. "Get to the point."

Rita pouted. "Point is, her office is empty, and I take that to mean free for public viewing."

"You mean _prying_?"

She huffed. "I mean gathering evidence, detective," she said innocently.

"Oh - so _this_ is your process then? Breaking into places you don't belong, bothering cops, sneaking pictures - " he nodded at her chest, where the camera hung.

"This isn't a tell-all, detective! Don't spoil it. You can read all about my process in my upcoming autobiography. _Rita Skeeter: Fly on the Wall._ "

Fitting, that she'd compare herself to a bug.

"Speaking of cameras, you can use mine." She unlooped the camera from around her neck. "You _can_ work a Nikon, yes? Any evidence we find, there's your proof."

"Poisoned fruit from a poisoned tree," Tom murmured, inspecting the camera. "I don't need it. Anything I find will be useless without a warrant, anyways."

"Why bother with a warrant when you have a witness willing to lie for the 'greater good'?" Rita arched a brow, stepping out of the elevator. "I'm an excellent actress. How else would I have gotten into so many of your crime scenes?"

Tom had nothing to say to that.

Phones were ringing and keyboards were clacking. A series of cubicles were filled with restless reporters, varying from sports to crime journalists. Posters and signed autographs were plastered across the walls. "It's dinnertime," Rita told him from the corner of her mouth. "They should all be leaving soon. Try to look busy."

Tom nodded and cleared his throat. His posture shifted as he followed her through the newsroom. He straightened his back, fixed a smug, arrogant smirk on his features. His suit jacket, plain and unbuttoned so not to track suspicion, helped him blend right in.

They passed one computer playing a live game of rugby. A reporter, necktie loose and shoes off, had his feet on his desk and a box of Chinese food in his lap. Cheeks filled with food, he cheered, snapping his chopsticks together as a goal was made.

"Layabouts," Rita sneered, rolling her eyes. "Come on."

She led him into a short hall and stopped at a tall white door; the name on the placard read _G. Weasley._

Rita carefully manhandled Tom so he was leaning on the wall beside her. "Stand here," she said, entirely serious. "You're my shield. Pretend like we're talking,"

"We _were_ talking," Tom murmured. "But you kept stopping to be dramatic."

"Drama is my forte, love. The readers eat it up," she told him knowingly, taking out her keycard. Carefully, she slotted it between the doorknob and the frame.

"This is illegal," Tom made sure to inform her. "And you're doing it wrong."

She blew a blonde curl out of her eyes and batted her long lashes. "If you think you can do better, detective," she purred, wiggling the card back and forth. "By all means."

Tom narrowed his eyes at her.

"Last chance to back out," Rita reminded him. "Do you want the evidence or not?"

"I want it."

"Good!" she said, just as the lock clicked. She opened the door for him, suddenly all chivalrous. "Ladies first."

Sparing one last glance back at the busy newsroom, Tom slipped into the office, one hand on his badge. _For the greater good,_ he reminded himself.

Rita shut the door behind them with her elbow, wise enough not to leave fingerprints on the knob. "Try not to touch anything," Tom told her, dragging out a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket. He inflated the gloves, warming them, before slipping them on.

"It would help to _see_ ," Rita said blandly, using her fingernail to flick on the lights.

Tom blinked, suddenly assaulted with green. The walls were covered head-to-toe with Holyhead Harpies posters, with green and yellow accents. Even the drawn curtains were decorated with the Holyhead Harpies symbol - a claw. "Someone . . . is clearly a fan."

"Gwenog Jones is the Harpies' captain," Rita stared jealously at a signed photo of the sharp-faced, brown-skinned woman. "Interview of the year," she said again, despondent.

Shaking his head, Tom purposefully glided over to Ginny's desk. It was messy, at first glance, littered with papers and pens and a gleaming silver stapler.

But tipping his head, Tom saw a pattern; the mess was purposeful, but everything clearly had its place. Paperwork was placed closest to the rubbish bin, finished articles were beside the framed photo of Ginny and a brood of redheads and her current projects were by the desktop computer for research. Something was wrong, but Tom couldn't quite figure out _what._

 _It's just like yours,_ he realized.

There was no personality. Beside the Holyhead Harpies obsession and the obligatory family photos, there weren't any personal effects. Not a single stress ball, encouraging poster or even a bobble-head.

Tom considered the computer. Everything around it was strictly professional; a calendar, a notepad, an address book, the phone. Her computer was solely for work. Tom doubted they'd find any personal information stored in it, but he decided to check her emails at the very least. Tom shifted the mouse.

The screen flashed, asking for a password.

He frowned and began looking under the keyboard and in drawers _. Real life wasn't like the movies,_ Tom sighed. People normally don't leave out convenient clues to their password on post-its.

Kneading his forehead, Tom tried to recall Ginny's case file. "What's most important to her?" he murmured. Tom snorted. "The Harpies and herself, obviously."

 _'Holyhead_ _'_ he tapped into the computer, before shaking his head. He deleted it, and instead typed _'Gwenog'._ The screen shook with an error message. Two tries left. He glanced around her collection of photographs. He recognized the Pyramid of Giza standing tall behind a family of red-heads. In the photo, she was young, cheeks flushed and freckles prominent. She was leaning away from her mother's possessive grip, however, her smile painfully wide . . . almost forced.

"Skeeter," Tom spoke absently, scanning the other picture frames. "Are there any photos of Luna Lovegood over where you're snooping?"

Rita didn't even bother defending herself.

She was standing beside a bookshelf, her sleeves pulled up over her hands as she flipped through a memoir, signed by Bulgarian athlete Viktor Krum. "Hm? Oh, no. Just pictures of Jones and a few other athletes. Although . . . " her brow quirked up in glee. She shoved the book away and reached down to rifle through a rubbish bin. She hissed, pulling her hand out quick as she cut herself on a glass shard. "She broke a frame." Biting a red lip, Rita gingerly removed a photograph, shaking off the broken glass. "I'm guessing the blonde is Luna?"

Tom moved to peer over Rita's shoulder. The picture, was indeed, of Ginny and her missing girlfriend. They were college students at the most; Ginny was donned in overalls and a fraying braid, while Luna was angelic in a white sundress. Her hair was adorned with a crown of purple and yellow wildflowers, her smile fond and dreamy. "She was beautiful," Tom murmured. "They were happy. Why break the picture?"

In the background of the picture, although Tom was careful not to let his expression show it, was a blur of dark hair and green eyes, playing ball with another red-head. _Ginny, Luna,_ and _Harry._ All connected - Harry _had_ mentioned her in the coffin, hadn't he?

Tom pursed his lips.

"It was recent," Rita suggested. "It was on top of the other rubbish."

Tom turned it around, hoping for a date or a name. He was sorely disappointed. "Maybe she did move on," Tom said, slipping the photo into his front jacket pocket. "But would she have had time to change her computer password?"

Recharged with hope, Tom sat at the computer and spread his gloved fingers across the keyboard. Most computers require a password six-digits long, or more. Simply _'Luna'_ was out. _'Lovegood'_ , he carefully typed, pressing enter. The screen buffered for a moment, before beeping out an error message.

"Unfortunate," he said. "Only one try left."

Inspecting the calendar beside him, Tom had a sudden thought. He flipped through the past months, hoping to chance upon two words. He cycled through the entire year, before flipping back to the months prior. January . . . February. Tom sat back, pleased. _Luna's Birthday!_ It read, with a heart drawn in red pen. The thirteenth of February. Tom did some quick math in his head and guessed her birth year.

He typed into the password box the first variation of the dates that came to mind. 110281.

Closing his eyes, Tom pressed enter. The computer released a pleased hum.

"Got it, then?" Rita asked him, perching on the desk beside him. "Oh, yay," with her hip, she accidentally nudged aside a pen jar. It rattled precariously on the edge before clattering to the ground, pens flying across the carpet.

Tom scrunched his nose at her. "You're cleaning that up so she doesn't notice."

Rita flapped a hand at him, jumping off the desk. Fixing her skirt, she crouched down to gather the fallen pens. "Find anything?"

"Not much," Tom murmured, retinas reflecting the bright resolution. Two tabs were open; one for her email and the other -

"Check her email, first," Rita peeked up. "I want to see if she was invited to Bertha Jorkin's baby shower."

Rolling his eyes, Tom brought the mouse to the _Inbox (178)._ "She's been a little distracted lately, hasn't she?" He scrolled down, eyes darting from one subject line to the other. She only opened one, he realized. _URGENT: Interview Raincheck?_ the subject asked.

"She got an email from Gwenog Jones' publicist," he realized, dread settling in his stomach. "They're rescheduling the interview for another time; Gwenog had a bad reaction to sushi at lunch. So if Ginny's not with Jones, where is she?"

A more recent email, sent by the London railway, answered this question.

It was a receipt for a one-way train ticket to Cornwall, scheduled for tomorrow at seven in the morning. Tom checked the time at the bottom of the computer. It was nearing five in the evening.

She was making a break for it.

"U - um," Rita said, voice muffled. She sounded ill, voice uncharacteristically wobbly. "Detective? Is . . . is this the sort of proof you're looking for?"

Blinking, Tom glanced down beneath the desk. Rita had been digging through Ginny's bookbag, the flap open in her lap. Rita flipped through a journal - a diary, rather - engraved with Ginny's name in gold letters. Her pale features were screwed in an expression of disgust as she lingered on one, particular page.

"What did you find?" Tom asked, bending to see.

With shaking fingers, Rita lifted a small clump of - _something -_ by the long nails of her thumb and forefinger.

It was a chunk of tangled, flaxen hair - streaked with blood. "It - it was pulled out by the scalp," Rita said, eyes crossing as she stared at it. "I can see some skin."

"Careful now," Tom said softly. Rita's throat was bobbing, as though she was about to hurl. He reached toward his pocket, pulling out an evidence bag. "Put it inside. Try not to get any of your DNA on it."

Nodding tremulously, Rita dropped the hair into Tom's open evidence bag. Lifting it into the light, Tom twisted the bag this way and that, mouth set in a grim line. "That's awfully damning," he murmured. "I suppose we can call my hunch a success, then."

Rita ignored his smug tone. "S - she takes that journal with her _everywhere_ ," Rita said, still struggling to swallow. She handed him the diary. "I thought it was her planner."

"You're not wrong . . . " Tom murmured. He pinched the corner of the pages, scanning her entries. "She just plans much worse things in this. If she brings it everywhere, why didn't she take it with her?"

Rita shrugged, still seated on the ground. Tom suspected that her knees were too weak to rise. "If she brought anything with her," Rita swallowed. "The police would've thought she'd run away of her own volition. But if she leaves things behind - "

"We might suspect that she had gone missing, like Luna."

Rita gave a jerky nod. "M - motives aside, this is all you'll need to prosecute her, yes? Does it say anything about Luna Lovegood?"

Tom shook his head, brows furrowed in consternation. "I'm not sure. Her handwriting is atrocious, I'll need my handwriting analysts to look it over."

"I'm willing to come forward as a witness," Rita offered, trying shakily to stand. She leaned heavily against the desk. "I'll - I'll pretend I saw the hair while she was writing in the diary. The puzzle pieces clicked and I called you - an officer of the law," She said, glancing at him hopefully. "Good thing I already had an interview planned between us, right? Otherwise, I wouldn't have your number."

Tom's mouth tightened as he considered it.

"That might work," he said grudgingly. "You'll have you stick to your script."

"Like I said," Rita raised a hand to her face. When she pulled it away she was smiling brightly, albeit shakily. "Great actress. Where is she headed next?"

"Cornwall," Tom said, closing the diary. Holding it sideways, he tried to slip it into another evidence bag, but it was simply too large. The journal was overflowing with notes and photos, crammed between the pages. "She purchased a one-way ticket online."

"Shouldn't have left a paper trail," Rita tsked. "Rookie mistake."

Tom was inclined to agree. "She's becoming desperate. Sloppy. If I can get this to Kingsley before four, we can meet her at the station with the full force of the DLE - " he started confidently, jaw set in solemn determination.

"Oh! Slow down, cowboy, you dropped something," Rita pointed, and they watched as a piece of paper glided it's way down to the ground. It landed beside Tom's foot. "That's . . . that's a photo from my article," she recognized, snatching it up.

In the clipping, Lockhart was standing over an open casket - the bullet-riddled body of his husband had been respectfully omitted from print. "The one from Mundungus Fletcher's funeral."

"Yes . . . _'Honeymoon Turned Deadly,'_ I recall."

Rita's brows flew up. "You read it."

Tom didn't bother deigning that with a response. He flipped open the diary, slotting it back between the pages. "Why would she _have_ this?"

"He was another match," Rita realized, heels bouncing. "Maybe she was keeping an eye on them."

Blue eyes darted up. "Think about it," he sneered. "She clearly had something to do with Lovegood's disappearance. We have to assume her motive for everything is nefarious."

"Whatever happened to 'innocent until proven guilty'?"

"It goes out the window once you find a missing girl's blood-soaked hair on the inside of an unreadable diary. Check this out." Tom pulled out several other sheaves of paper. One after another, out of order and disjointed, the clippings came mostly from first edition copies of the _Daily Prophet._ The majority had been written by Rita Skeeter, herself.

"She was tracking _The Matchmaker's_ progress," Rita realized, recognizing articles from the first few victims, Grindelwald's trial, the Lockhart's engagement. "She touched this one the most." It was a picture of Ginny and Luna, clutching each other's hands tearfully as they exited the gravesite of their own kidnapping. The ink was smudged and the photo crinkled almost beyond recognition. "What the hell?"

Slashed through Luna's sweet, tear-stained face was a large, messy _'X'._

"She's crossing their faces out," Tom realized in abrupt horror. "Dumbledore. Lovegood. Fletcher. Myrtle Warren - although I don't see how she fits the pattern."

"My god," Rita realized, looking sick. "I got an email this morning from a source at St. Mungos. The girl was admitted after a suicide attempt. She tried to drown herself. It's . . . " the woman raked a hand over her face, expression wane. "She's alive. But the absence of oxygen to her brain left her in a fate worse than death. I sent a draft of an article to our editor, but it was trashed; my imagery was, apparently, too graphic," she grimaced. "Ginny must have seen it." Slamming the diary onto the desk, Tom tore through the pages, searching for one last photo. "What are you - "

"One by one," Tom snarled. "Half of the Matchmaker's pairs are turning up dead."

"That's . . . true. God."

"The _Matchmaker's_ profile is notoriously symmetric. They match a pair of two, complete opposites, placed vertically in a coffin. Ginny's desk - on the surface - it looks messy, haphazard. But there's a method to the madness. It's meticulous and carefully crafted to deceive."

Rita seemed doubtful.

Gesturing vehemently at the desk, Tom elaborated. "Everything is symmetrical, papers on either side of the computer, pencils completely straight. Her books are organized almost painstakingly, and the posters on the wall are slotted together like Tetris blocks. It's apart of her profile; she likes symmetry."

 _"Her_ profile?" Rita asked dubiously. "You can't possibly be suggesting - "

"Criminals like to inject themselves into their crimes, experience it themselves. Ginny and Luna were the _Matchmaker's_ first victims; if Ginny is truly as obsessed - as _twisted_ as I suspect, she wanted to relive the fantasy. Instead of traumatizing her girlfriend, again and again, Ginny began to live vicariously throw other pairs. And now that everything's gone to hell in a handbasket, she's escalating. She likely wants to finish what Grindelwald started. By killing Dumbledore, he started a chain of events that's lead . . . to us."

Tom nearly dropped the book when he found it. A photo, grainy and taken from afar, of Harry being led to an ambulance after they were found. _"Harry,"_ he whispered, almost a whimper.

"I took that picture," Rita said. "Kingsley wouldn't let me get any closer to the crime scene."

Tom, like he tended to, ignored her.

He had bigger problems.

Harry's figure, although distant and nearly unrecognizable, was violently crossed out.

Three times, in bright, red ink.

"I have to - " Tom choked out, frantically shoving the diary and the photos back into Ginny's bookbag. He was certain that the wayward serial kidnapper wouldn't mind him borrowing it. He patted his pockets, ensuring he had the strip of hair. His stomach churned at the thought of Harry, scalped and bleeding, helpless without a savior. "I have to go - there's . . . someone I have to help. Wait - hand me that address book."

* * *

Soft pants fell from Tom's lips as he walked briskly away from his car, toward the smattering of apartment buildings on London's west end. The building, made of brick, was crumbling and in disrepair; but the window sills were decorated with gorgeously blooming flowers in overflowing planters.

Tom peered up at the apartment, biting his bottom lip; _hard._

"Harry," Tom murmured. He removed Ginny's address book and checked the address. He glanced up again. "I guess this is you."

A sign reading _Beware Dog_ was in the first-floor window.

Taking in a sharp breath, Tom carefully tucked the book away - along with the bags of evidence trapped in Ginny's book bag. Smoothing out his suit, patting at his dark curls, Tom clambered up the front steps.

Almost a second later, after staring at the door, he tromped back down and snatched a handful of yellow and white from the neighbor's planter. _Freesia_ , if he was not mistaken. _'Symbolizing trust,'_ He recalled his mother's voice, reciting flower meanings from memory as she tended to her garden; black hair tied up into a loose bun, dirt caked on her knees, a garden tool in hand.

Resisting a shudder at the thought of dirt and graves, Tom carefully pressed the intercom button for the first floor. It released a long buzz, before falling silent.

Tom waited, rocking back and forth on his heels, debating just kicking down the door. After all, he _did_ have probable cause that Harry could be in danger. What if, Tom began to worry, Harry was already dead, lying on the floor or bleeding out, and Tom was down here, _helpless -_

He pressed the button again, harsh and insistent. "Answer, damn it," he swore, wishing he'd gotten Harry's phone number. "Answer."

As if by miracle, the button glowed red.

A harsh rasping sound echoed through the intercom. Heavy breaths, fearful but subdued.

"Harry?" Tom demanded, concerned. His fingers clenched the freesias tight enough that a petal shook loose, fluttering to the ground. "It's Tom. Tom Riddle? Are you alright?"

 _"Tom,"_ Harry whispered back, fear in his tone. _"What are you - "_ there was a muffled rustle, and Harry's voice choked. _"I'm sorry. Now - now's not a good time."_

"Harry, let me up," Tom said, his heart was pounding rapidly. "Let me up, _now."_

 _"Please,"_ Harry said, although Tom got the impression he was pleading to someone else entirely. _"Please, you can't - after everything - "_

The call cut off.

Dropping all pretense of this being a casual social visit, Tom rammed his shoulder into the door, swearing beneath his breath as pain flared up his arm. Bracing himself, he threw himself into the frame once more.

The door slammed open, the splintered wood caving in with a _crunch._ Sparing barely a glance at the damage, Tom followed the sound of a dog's manic barking. He stopped at the first door he saw, a frayed mat welcoming him. As his hand grasped the knob, a muffled crash and a pained cry met his ears.

Tom shoved his way inside and watched in horror as Harry crumpled. Dropping the bookbag, he held his taser aloft. "DLE! Put your hands - " He caught a glimpse of red hair disappearing through an open window, a kitchen knife clattering to the floor beside Harry. "Goddamnit."

Tom darted toward the window and leaned over, but it was too late. She was gone, her heels left abandoned on the sidewalk outside for a swifter getaway.

"Fuck that," Tom swore, dropping the taser onto the couch. It bounced lightly on the cushioned futon, the pattern a garish paisley.

Falling to his knees, Tom gathered his dazed and bleeding friend. He pressed his fingers to Harry's pulse, detecting a weak, but rapidly beating pulse. "Hey," he tapped Harry's cheeks. "Come on, wake up, it's okay," Tom coaxed. "Show me those pretty green eyes of yours."

Achingly slow, slow enough that Tom wondered if Harry needed paramedics, long lashes batted open. His pupils were dilated, the green nearly enveloped by black.

"Wha-? Tom?" Harry tried to sit up. He immediately regretted it, a groan slipping past his lips. "God - what happened?"

"She got you with the knife handle. Knocked you out for a minute."

Harry groaned, pressing his cheek into Tom's thigh. "I thought we were just having lunch. But she - " he struggled to continue, words slurring. He tasted iron on his tongue and raised a trembling hand to his head. "She was acting strange. Am I bleeding?"

Tom smeared the blood away from Harry's eyes. "Don't stress yourself. Your glasses shattered and you're all cut up, but I don't think there's head trauma. Either way, try not to fall asleep - I'm going to patch you up." Stretching to grab a pillow off the futon, he carefully lowered Harry's head onto the cushion. Blood soaked Tom's shirt sleeves.

Standing shakily, he swiftly approached the kitchen. Tom rifled through the cupboards, hoping to find a first-aid kit. Instead, all he found were chipped coffee mugs and an old set of plates. The table was set with fixings for dinner, two sandwiches half-made and dog food set out. The dog was nowhere to be seen, but Tom could hear the scratch of claws against a door.

"There's a kit in the bathroom," Harry called feebly from the floor. "Could you let Padfoot out, too? He's . . . " Harry shifted. "His barking is going to annoy the neighbors."

"But not the attempted murder?" Tom wondered aloud.

He approached the rattling bathroom door, steady so the dog wouldn't perceive him as a danger. Padfoot had stopped barking for a moment, but the snarls picked up the moment Tom turned the knob. A freakishly large, shaggy black dog darted out at the first chance of escape. His paws clattered against the floor, a whimper erupting from his maw as he spotted Harry on the ground.

"Oof - " Harry exclaimed, weakly clutching at Padfoot's fur. "Calm down, boy, I'm okay. Hush, boy. _Hush,"_ he gentled. Still, on high alert, the dog sniffed around the window before collapsing in a pile of black fur at Harry's side. A long, rolling tongue tentatively laved at Harry's blood-stained hands.

"Gross, Padfoot," Tom heard Harry say. "Don't eat that."

Opening the mirror cabinet and gathering an armful of supplies - gauze, a rag, tweezers, a needle and string for stitches - Tom paused. His fingers brushed against an unlabeled vial of a clear, odorless chemical.

His eyes slipped shut. Shaking his head, Tom shut the cabinet and returned to the living room.

Keeping a wary eye on the mutt, Tom wiped the blood from Harry's scalp and began to clean the wound. "This might sting a bit," he said apologetically, applying the rubbing alcohol in light dabs.

Padfoot growled, deep in his throat, as Harry let out a high pitched whimper.

"I don't think it needs stitches," Tom winced in sympathy, using a pair of tweezers to remove a small shard of glass. "Not very deep, but you'll have a small scar."

"At least I'll look distinguished," Harry murmured, humor leaking through the grimace of pain. "Why - why are you here? We haven't spoken since the coffin. I thought you'd forgotten about me."

"I could never forget you."

There was a long silence, filled with Harry's labored breathing and the jangle of Padfoot's collar "That doesn't explain jack shite. Why were you here?"

Although the profanity was uncalled for, Tom pressed his lips together, patient. He stood and went to the kitchen sink, scrubbing the blood from his hands. His finely muscled back was tense, muscles flexing and releasing. Harry sat up, leaning heavily against Padfoot, his fingers curled against the dark fur.

"Why haven't you called the police?" he asked instead, changing the question. His tone was mournful, almost bitter. "That was attempted murder, wasn't it? And you're a detective. It's your _duty_ to catch criminals,"he spat. "Right?"

"She's got a train to Cornwall in the morning," Tom said dismissively. "My men will be waiting undercover at the station to apprehend her. I was just hoping - before they all heard her excuses and scapegoating - that I could hear your side of the story, first."

The boy, pale enough as it was from blood loss, seemed to whiten further. "My side - " Harry swallowed tightly. "You - you mean about the attack?"

Tom decided to go easy on him. "I suppose we can start there first if you're most comfortable," he continued, eyes narrowed. "Although, rest assured, we _will_ talk about the rest later."

All Tom could see was a dark head of hair bobbing up and down in agreement.

"Why weren't you at work, Harry?" Approaching the boy as he would a startled animal, Tom sat cross-legged across from him, blue eyes unwavering. Padfoot acted as a barrier between them, crawling into Harry's lap and lazily watching the tall, imposing stranger impeding on his territory.

"Slughorn let me go. With benefits, but still," Harry buried his head into Padfoot's fur. "I've missed so many days this past month, he hired someone new. Perhaps that's for the better," he said, voice muffled.

"Did Ginny know you were home?"

Harry sniffed. "Probably. We've been avoiding each other since - well, for a while. But sometimes I come home after shopping or walking the dog, and I feel like she's been here. Moved stuff around. Drinken some of my wine. She has a key," he explained. "And this always used to be her safe space. She'd come here unannounced and make herself at home. I allowed it. She was - _is -_ my friend. I never thought she would - "

"Turn on you?" Tom asked, not unkindly. He shifted, noticing Harry's eyes glisten with tears "None of that, now," he sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face. "I can get your statement later. I think - I just think you should rest, for a bit. Your head wound isn't so bad that it would be detrimental, but - " Tom hesitated, taking in Harry's dark-smudged eyes and his trembling, tired limbs. "You look like you could use the sleep."

Harry began to shove Padfoot off his lap. "You'll - you'll stay, right?" he said, unsure.

"The whole night, if I have to. She could come back," Tom added unnecessarily. "Although unlikely, it's better to err on the side of caution." She was on the run, but above all else, she was _obsessive._ Was Harry still in danger from her? Tom wondered, eyeing the shaking, tired-eyed man. Or was Harry's greatest danger his own psyche?

"Whoa, whoa - careful, now," Tom grabbed Harry under the arms as the boy lurched forward, dizzy. "If I was smart, I'd have a doctor check you for a concussion," Tom's lips tugged into a frown.

"I'm not concussed," Harry said, shaking away his vertigo. "Trust me. I've been hit a lot worse."

Tom didn't like the sound of that. He led Harry into the master bedroom. It was decorated in shades of red, almost burgundy in color, with gold accents. Indoor plants decorated nearly every surface, a stack of books on botany, chemistry and advanced mathematics in the corner. "Leftover from uni," Harry grimaced, settling heavily onto his mattress. "I was expelled early on. Very start of my second year. Could you grab me that shirt - draped on the - yeah, thanks."

With a pained expression, Harry peeled off his blood-stained shirt and replaced it with a clean one. Tom averted his eyes, politely ignoring that pale expanse of smooth, smooth skin. The dresser, he noted, had been pushed in front of the closet, blocking entry.

"Why were you expelled?" Tom wasn't even sure why he wanted to ask. He settled himself at the foot of the bed, peering down at the frayed green and red quilt. The colors were muted, more of pale salmon and forest green, so it looked less like Christmas and more . . . homey.

Harry peeled up the bedcovers and slid underneath. "The headmaster had it out for me," he said idly, although his eyes were hard. "Dunno why. But he kept trying to find ways to get me in trouble, from detention to points taken; I wasn't a troublemaker, I was one of the quiet ones. Studious. But then my friend got drunk and crashed a car into school property and I got pinned for it. I was in the passenger's seat. Nearly died."

Tom grimaced at the admittance. "Did your . . . _friend_ get expelled?"

"Yes, and he conceivably got it worse than me. His mum just about strangled him. He's - um. He's how I met Ginny. They're siblings, a year apart. I used to stay with them back before Slughorn gave me a job," Harry smoothed a hand across his face, kneading at his brow. "Ron's a good man. Works so hard, I barely see him. He works in freelance construction now, but he could've been something great, I tell you."

Tom wondered if 'Ron' was the man playing football with Harry in the photo. It burned in his front pocket.

"And you? Could you have been something great."

Harry considered it, leaning back onto a pillow. "Great? No. No, I'm just Harry."

"Well, 'just Harry'," Tom said, with the faintest semblance of a smirk. "I've got to make a call - not the station, I'll save that for the morning. My . . . my mother," he said, unable to lie when staring at those wide, spring green eyes. "She worries."

"That's sweet," Harry gave a tired smile. His words faded into a soft mumble. "You're sweet."

Rolling his eyes, Tom stood and toed off his shoes. As soon as he opened the door to step into the hall, there was a jingle of Padfoot's dog collar, and the massive mutt hopped onto Harry's bed. "Padfoot," Harry groaned. "You know you're not supposed to be up here, boy."

The sounds of Harry's muffled laughter made Tom's blue eyes sparkle like a night sky. Once in the hall, Tom found his belongings. His taser was on the couch, his coat draped over a kitchen chair. Ginny's bag sitting innocuously by the threshold where he'd dropped it. Glaring at the bag, and cursing its owner, Tom grabbed his coat and dug through the pockets for his phone.

Flipping the lid open, he speed-dialed his mother; quietly hoping that she wouldn't pick up. It would be far, _far_ easier just to leave a voicemail. The dial tone rang for only a few moments before Poppy, her voice saddled with concern, answered.

"Tom, dear? You're late for dinner. Your mother nearly had me call Detective Sergeant Shacklebolt again."

"Yes," Tom acknowledged, grimacing. "I apologize. I never meant to worry her. I . . . I'm spending the night with a friend, Poppy."

"Oh!" Poppy said in surprise before her voice turned sly. "Not a lady friend, I suspect?"

"Not a lady friend," he confirmed, amused. "Harry Potter."

"The boy that was - "

" - in the coffin with me." Tom said tiredly. "He's been having trouble sleeping, and I thought I could be of some assistance. I'll be staying for breakfast, as well."

"Uh-huh," she said, tone dripping with amusement. "I'll let your mother know; she'll be overjoyed you're finally dating."

Tom flushed, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. "It's not a date, Poppy."

"Use protection!"

With that merciless, mirthful response, she hung up on him.

"- Poppy!"

Tom, flustered, snapped the phone shut.

Scrubbing the red from his cheeks, Tom began to tear off his blood-stained outer dress shirt and his trousers, leaving him in a white cotton t-shirt and boxers, black socks hugging his lightly-furred calves. Folding his clothes methodically and placing them by Ginny's bag, he re-entered Harry's room, unsurprised to see the boy fast asleep.

In the dark, he looked pale. Almost dead, with his red wound a glaring contrast.

Tom debated pulling up a chair and sleeping upright, until he noticed the conveniently pulled back sheets. The pillow was fluffed and enticing. Swallowing tightly, Tom maneuvered past Padfoot at the end of the bed and crawled onto the mattress beside Harry.

He peered down at the boy, watching Harry's chest rise and fall at steady intervals. Calmed by the soft breathing, the darkened lights and the warmth of another human body, Tom almost felt like he was back in the coffin again. Secure. Alone together.

He settled his head onto the pillow, his nose brushing against the dark, messy curls of his companion. Tom took an imperceptible breath, smelling the tang of blood mixed with a sweet, boyish scent -

His eyes slipped shut.

Even though he was in bed with a criminal, Tom never slept better.

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**


	8. The Corpse Trial

****_The Matchmaker_****

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **VIII:**

 _ **The Corpse Trial**_

Tom shivered.

Gooseflesh crawled across his skin as he rolled onto the other side of the mattress.

It took him a moment to realize something was wrong; this was not his bed, and something was missing. Or, rather _someone._

Feeling a distinct parallel to waking in the coffin, groggy and confused. Tom peeled his eyes open and stared bleary-eyed out the window. Sunlight streamed in, the rays dancing across the hard-wood. At his feet, Padfoot snuffled and curled closer to Tom. His feet were trapped beneath the large mutt, the only warm part of his body. "Off you get," Tom murmured, gently pushing the blankets, and the dog, aside. "I need those." Padfoot blinked up at him, eyes wet and dark, before turning his head, content to fall back asleep.

Spreading his toes on the cold floor, Tom stood, wrapping a strong arm around himself. He spotted his clothes still folded in the hallway. His dress shirt was on the bottom of the pile, sleeves stained with spots of blood. Harry's blood.

The photo was still in the front pocket, untouched. With a sick sort of pleasure, he slid his arms through the sleeves and flexed his arm, watching the spots of red wrinkle and stretch. Staring into the vanity mirror, he realized he looked ridiculously good with his shirt unbuttoned and his boxers framing his morning erection. He ran a hand through the wavy strands of his hair, one stubborn curl settling over his forehead.

"You're an early riser," he cleared his throat, stepping into the kitchen.

Harry's hair was even worse than Tom's, the dark curls practically defying gravity with their volume. Tom wanted to run his fingers through the curls and wondered, distantly, if that was what people meant by 'sex-hair'. Harry was wrapped in a baggy red and gold striped sweater, the colors completely uncomplimentary to his pale complexion. An apron was loosely tied around his waist, the hem trailing against pale, freckled thighs. "How are you doing?" He smiled shyly.

"It's cold," Tom stated, rather abruptly. In an attempt to bring those long legs out of his line of sight, he settled onto a kitchen stool, settling his hands awkwardly onto the counter. He almost didn't know what to do with them. "And shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"Sorry," Harry easily sidestepped the inquiry. "The thermostat's a bit tetchy in the morning." Harry placed a steaming cup of tea in front of Tom. His eyes lingered on the bloodstains, but said nothing. Tom took a tentative sip of his drink before staring down at it, eyes wide. "It's not poisoned," Harry said, arching a brow. "Promise."

"No - it's just, this is exactly how I like it," he said. "One sugar, spoonful of honey. How did you know?"

"Oh," Harry flushed, fingers curling around his own cup. "That's just how I take it. I wasn't - it was just habit, is all."

There was an awkward pause. Harry leaned against the counter, eyes downcast. Tom desperately wanted to reach over and lift Harry's chin and scream _'we spent the night together, and you can't even look at me?'._

Tom hated himself for even thinking that, when he knew what Harry was.

Harry was the second half of the Matchmaker. And looking back with hindsight, it all seemed so clear.

The realization was in part due to a slow recollection of Hestia Jones' profile; Harry was innocent looking, in the closet, a dog owner, had a background in chemistry - there was also the lack of a recording device in the coffin and the Matchmaker's need to insert himself into the crime. The puzzles pieces all seemed to fit. Seeing the chloroform in Harry's cabinet was the final nail in the coffin.

He hadn't wanted to believe it at first, but Tom - above all else - was a detective. He deduced the signs. He could no longer ignore them.

Tom found himself despising the oath of honor he had given, swearing to seek truth and justice. He didn't want to think about what would happen outside of this house; whether it be handcuffing Harry's thin wrists and taking him to court, or seeing him wither away inside an asylum.

Tom's only saving grace was that it was clear Harry hadn't been working alone.

Frustrated with himself, and the situation, Tom let his eyes wander.

The freesias he had stolen were displayed in a vase, petals crumpled and the color almost grey as they'd wilted overnight. But the way Harry was looking at them - eyes soft, a smile lilting his pink lips - made Tom see at them in a new light.

"It's morning," Harry said, peeking back at Tom. "Shouldn't . . . shouldn't you be finding Ginny? At the train station?"

"My men can handle her. I informed Kingsley of her whereabouts last night before coming over, he's more than excited to get this shitshow over with." Harry blinked at the profanity. "His words, not mine."

Harry's tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. He opened his mouth as if about to ask a question, when the oven went off.

"That'll be the scones," His voice pitched. Setting down his cup, he bustled over and slipped on an oven mitt. He removed a tray of freshly baked scones, the room filling with the smell of blueberries and melted macadamia nut.

"Wow," Tom said, thrown for a loop. The last time he had a home-cooked breakfast was . . . honestly, too long ago to count. "You didn't have to. "

"You're my guest, alright?" Harry scraped the pastries onto a plate. "Least I could do is feed you. I was going to make sausage, but Padfoot gets hyper and _will_ snatch the food from your plate," he said, smirking. He placed a scone in front of Tom. "And if this is my final meal, at least the company is worth it," he murmured.

Tom tactfully ignored the comment, blowing away the steam. He took a bite, relishing in the heat, blueberry bursting on his tongue. "It's good. Really good."

Harry shrugged, chagrined. "I've been making breakfast since before I knew the alphabet. My aunt and uncle - well, you know."

Chewing thoughtfully, Tom made a decision.

"I haven't had a homemade breakfast for years," he confided softly. "I don't have time in the morning, and even if I did, it wouldn't be good. I'm a horrid cook, compared to my mother. And she's not doing much, these days. It's a relief if she even takes her medication."

Eyes wide, Harry seemed to understand the significance of Tom's anecdote

Even if it was something as simple as his morning routine, he was opening up. Slowly, Harry moved to sit beside him, hands curled around his tea. He waited patiently for Tom to finish his bite, throat bobbing as he carefully chose his next words.

His tone was controlled, level, unemotional - even as his eyelashes fluttered in pain. "When I was twenty-one," he started, haltingly. He'd never said it aloud before. "She was diagnosed with leukemia. The symptoms started small, with a strange purplish rash. It took a while to realize her blood vessels were bursting. She bruised so easily, her nose bled at night and she lost weight _so_ damn fast," once he started, Tom realized he couldn't stop. He lifted a steadying hand to his heart.

"The first few months, I tried to care for her myself. But with my lifestyle, the odd hours and the stress, it simply wasn't viable. The doctors recommended Madam Pomfrey - my mother's nurse - and she's been a lifesaver. Not just for my mother, but for me, as well. She made sure I ate _something_ every morning, even if it wasn't a freshly baked scone," Tom choked out a laugh, lifting the pastry that he'd half forgotten in his hand. He took a decisive bite, chewing mechanically.

"She encouraged me to spend time with my coworkers, tried to help me find a _life_ outside of work and my mother. It didn't work much, but - without her, I'd have given up a long time ago. With all the hospital bills, medication, therapy, Poppy's salary, I had to work overtime. My boss at the time, Scrimgeour, took my sudden fervor as an indication that I wanted a promotion. When he retired, he recommended me for the job, and I've never been so grateful," Tom shifted on his stool, staring down at his half-empty teacup. He took a delicate sip, although it was going cold.

"The pay was excellent, it was more of a desk job and it offered me the chance to boss people around," his lips quirked in a sly smile. Harry smiled back, eyes sad.

"I'm not very well-liked among my peers, but that's alright," Tom said, wiping the crumbs from his fingers. "I don't need to be liked, but _respected -_ that's all I ask for. That's all I've ever wanted, to - to make an _impact._ I could've done anything. My father - " Tom shook his head, eyes hard. "He left my mother before I was born. He's high-born, has property to manage, couldn't _bother_ himself with the gardener he knocked up. He still sends me Christmas gifts and set aside a college fund for me, as though that's enough to make up for the _childhood_ of neglect."

Harry flinched at the word. Tom was angry now, practically spitting. "I haven't touched the money, although I wanted to. I tried to visit him once, when mother first fell ill. He has an entirely other family, a wife and her half-wit children from another marriage. They're not biologically related to me - thankfully. But Thomas - my father, my _namesake -_ he was sympathetic but otherwise anxious to get me out the door. He offered to pay for her medical bills, and that's what I came for - ultimately, I refused. I looked at him, in his precious mansion, his silk, monogrammed pajamas, and his handsome face, softened around the edges from years of lazing about, and I wanted to smack him. Worse, I wanted to take his offer of money and shove it down his throat," Tom snarled, fists clenching hard enough to do some damage.

Tentatively, Harry reached over and touched his white knuckles, smoothing over them. Tom relaxed, minutely, curling his hand around Harry's in a grateful squeeze. "Well. Needless to say, I left and never returned. I went to the Police Academy on my own merit, used the name 'Gaunt' until I graduated so no one would recognize me - and now, I'm the motherfucking Detective Chief Inspector," his voiced oozed with smug superiority.

Seeing the vindictive spark in his eyes, Harry was struck breathless. Tom, sleep-mussed and a chatterbox was attractive enough - but _Tom_ _Riddle,_ bastard son and head of the DLE was something else entirely.

Harry wanted to kiss him.

He desperately wanted to kiss him.

So he did.

Using their intertwined hands, Harry tugged Tom closer and forcefully pressed their lips together. Tom made a muffled sound of surprise before it morphed into a pleased snarl.

He tore his hand away and gripped at Harry's curls, pulling him closer, their teeth clacking and noses brushing. Tom relished in the feeling of Harry's hair between his fingers - it was just as soft as he thought.

Someone slipped their tongue in and soon they were tangled in a battle that had no clear winner. Harry was practically crawling into Tom's lap, although the jut of the marble countertop and the dangerous tilt of the kitchen stool made it difficult. Tom's other hand crept it's way up Harry's lovely, smooth thigh, pushing aside his overlong sweater and skimming the edge of his briefs.

For a moment, however brief, Tom forgot about their circumstances and allowed himself to _feel._ Denial was his friend this morning, it seemed.

It didn't last long.

Smelling the pheromones (or perhaps wondering what could make his master whimper like that), Padfoot wandered into the kitchen. His claws clattered against the floor and his collar jangled noisily. He barked. He was hungry.

Harry pulled away first, panting heavily against Tom's lips. Tom relaxed his grip on Harry's hair, tenderly massaging his sore scalp, regretting the harsh action. The boy had a head wound, after all.

"I suppose you'll be arresting me now," Harry stated, breathless. Blue and green met, Tom arching a curious brow. "For assaulting an officer."

"No," Tom said, licking his lips. "No arrest will be made. You're just - you're just making good on the promise I made in the coffin. I should've done this a lot earlier."

Harry laughed. "Better late than never. Considering that if Ginny has her say, I'm going to be spending a long time in a room with gray walls and a straitjacket."

"Is that . . . an admission of guilt?" Tom grunted, carefully pushing Harry off him. Tom was loathe to break the spell, so he forced an air of normality- as though it was an everyday occurrence to make out with a criminal. "Feed your dog, by the way," he added.

Padfoot whined in agreement.

Harry cleared their plates, lips dripping with saliva and breath unsteady from the impromptu snogging. He glared down at Padfoot's snuffling black snout and whispered. "Cockblocker." Ruffling Padfoot's ears, Harry poured him a bowl of dog food and water.

Tom was still at the counter, legs crossed to hide a rather prominent erection. Harry would be lying if he said he didn't have the same problem. Returning to his earlier place, the counter between them as a careful but unfortunate barricade, Harry wiped the table down.

Tom glanced at the oven clock. "By the way," He cleared his throat, suddenly all business. The effect was rather diminished by the flush to his cheeks and the way his lower half avoided friction. "It's seven. Ginny will be in custody soon."

Harry tipped his head at the clock, lips pursed in seriousness. "How'd you find her, anyway?"

"I found a strand of Luna's hair in Ginny's diary," Tom said vaguely. "And a receipt for a ticket to Cornwall. What's in Cornwall for her?"

"Shell Cottage," Harry said immediately. "Her brother's place. He's in France with his wife. She's always talked about sneaking over for a vacation. Wait. How did you get her diary?"

"Long story short, I owe Rita Skeeter a favor. An 'exclusive interview'," he looked so thoroughly disgusted with himself that Harry took the risk and placed his hand on Tom's.

"We could - we could do it together?"

"Yes. We could," Tom seemed contemplative. _"Detective Chief Inspector and his 'Match' tell-all."_ Harry's lips tightened in amusement. Tom continued, a slow smirk growing on his features. _"About their brave final confrontation with the woman who buried them alive."_

"You could be a writer," Harry said definitively. "Better than that drivel Skeeter writes." He shifted uncomfortably in Tom's arms. "Want to . . . " he started shyly. "Take this to the bedroom? Just - just to talk? It'd more comfortable, that's all."

Amused, Tom let him pull away. "I don't need another excuse to get into your bed."

Cheeks flushing the exact shade of his sweater, Harry exclaimed. "Tom!"

* * *

'Post-coital bliss' sounded ridiculous on paper, but there was no other way for Tom to describe the oozy, lethargic content that overcame him. They were (mostly) still dressed, but Harry's throat was littered in bite marks, his lips red and wet. The door was closed and they could hear Padfoot wandering the apartment, so there was no chance of them being interrupted again.

Tom traced Harry's bottom lip gently, slowly pressing a finger inside. Harry latched onto it, the tip of his tongue moist and curious about the taste. "Salty," he said softly, releasing Tom's finger. "Tastes like you."

"I sure hope so," Tom kissed Harry's lips one last time.

He liked seeing Harry, swimming in that over-large sweater, soft, small and pliant beneath him. His fingers trailed mournfully down to the waistband of Harry's briefs. _Later,_ he promised himself. Self-indulgent, he placed light pressure on Harry's bulge, smirking at Harry's hiss. He pulled away just as fast, leaving the boy in a state of sensitive semi-hardness.

"I'd like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind," he whispered, his breath tickling the small hairs by Harry's ears. "If we tread carefully, you'd be an excellent character witness in court. Ginny was your good friend, wasn't she?"

Harry's eyes slipped shut. "That's one way of putting it," he murmured.

"I assure you, everything we say in here, stays in here," Tom said firmly. "You could help us find the missing girl - or, I could bring you in, and we wouldn't be able to do anything like _this,"_ he pressed his lips rapidly against Harry's. "For a very, very long time. Tell me about Luna Lovegood."

"In bed?" Harry groaned, hiding his face in the pillow. "Quite the mood-killer, Tom."

"Just making conversation," he said innocently.

Harry made a vague noise, turning his head. His eyes were squeezed shut, the skin around them crinkling. "She was a sweetheart," Harry said, after a moment. "I didn't want to think Ginny could hurt her, but once I started thinking it, it made all too much sense. There always was a slim line between love and hate," his hand moved to clench Tom's shirt. "Do you think she's dead?"

"I think if Ginny was willing to kill you, the only one who could possibly understand her, she must've had a reason," Tom stated resolutely. "Then again, two can keep a secret if one of them is dead."

"I'd prefer if we didn't talk about my death in bed, either," Harry said tiredly. Tom moved his fingers over the small, raised scar on Harry's forehead. It was still tender, the stitches flaming red. "Unless you mean _la petit mort."_

Tom didn't rise to the challenge, instead - almost obsessively - tracing the wound. It was peculiarly-shaped, a bit like a bolt of lightning. "If we're going to indict Ginny for Luna's death, I might need more than the hair," Tom said, almost absently. "A body would help."

He adjusted the pillow behind him, leaning back with a yawn. "She'd keep Luna close - somewhere accessible, but not somewhere she'd be liable for."

"Other than her home and her parent's, Ginny doesn't have many safe spaces. Just my place, I suppose," for a moment, green eyes darted toward the closet. The dresser innocuously blocked its entry.

Tom blinked in sudden realization. ". . . Harry," he started slowly, gaze drifting to the closet. "What's in your closet?"

"J - just some bad memories."

 _Bad memories,_ Tom wondered. _Like_ _a literal skeleton in the closet._

"Um," Harry said, watching Tom pull out of bed and pad his way over to the dresser drawers. Harry had hoped, rather selflessly, that this could wait until later. _Much_ later.

Watching Tom huff and grunt as he pushed the dresser aside, Harry covered his face. Dread crept in, breaking past the relief and pleasure Harry had been feeling only a few scant minutes ago.

As Tom opened the closet doors, they were immediately hit with an awful, rotting smell. It was intermixed with perfume, a feminine scent corrupted by decay.

"Oh," Harry breathed, bringing a trembling hand to his mouth, covering his nose. The smell was rancid. He stumbled out of bed, ready to be sick. "Oh, god."

Light flooded the room, but the only thing they saw was the body.

Wrapped tightly in a tarp, with bloodied blonde hair splayed out on the floor, was Luna's corpse. She was pale in death, the lower half of her face covered - but what they could see was enough.

Stony-faced, Tom crept to her side, pushed up his sleeves and tentatively moved to lift her eyelids. She was long dead, her crystalline eyes filmy and caked with dried blood. If Tom's his stomach wasn't so strong from years of exposure to these sorts of atrocities, he'd be tasting breakfast again. "How could you not _notice_ this here?" he asked, appalled, the heat of anger sharpening his tone. "You should have smelled it, at the very least. Depending on the conditions, temperature and air flow, decomposition would've started after a few days."

"I don't - " Harry placed a hand over his eyes, expression wane. "I thought the smell was Padfoot, that he made a mess somewhere. I haven't been in here for weeks . . . she must have brought it here while I was walking the dog a few weeks ago," he said, almost abashed. "I noticed the door was unlocked when I came home, but I didn't think much of it."

"I think you mentioned that she has a key?"

"Y - yes."

"I need you to be sure, Harry. This . . . could really incriminate you. Not just the body," Tom rose from his crouch. "The pictures, the tapes, the map, diameters for coffins," he carefully pinched the corner of a paper, lifting it off the desk. He inspected the dimensions with a shrewd eye, almost impressed. "What is all this? Did you make these? I wasn't aware you had any handy-man skills," Tom said, accusing.

"I know enough," Harry defended. "But . . . but I had an inheritance from my godfather that helped."

Tom arched a brow, setting down the parchment. "I thought you lived with your aunt and uncle? Have you been lying to me all this time?"

"No - no, Tom! I did. He wasn't fit for custody," Harry insisted, gaze fixated on the halo of blonde hair across his floor. "He was incarcerated and died in a prison brawl when I was thirteen. I received an inheritance when I turned of age, enough for me to afford school. But . . . there was also a house. In total disrepair, and more than a bit creepy. His entire family was obsessed with death. His father made coffins, his mother was a mortician and his brother was the last body they buried. They kept some unfinished caskets in the basement of their house, and I fixed them up," he explained, mouth twisting as Tom stepped toward the wall of pictures.

Tom lingered on one; it was a blurry image of himself, speaking into his cell phone as he crossed the street toward work. Tom's fingers trembled imperceptibly.

"I made them - well, comfier for a living person, drilled a hole for the tube, attached the recording device. It . . . " he moved in a frenzied manner toward a device tucked into one of the desk drawers. He had to reach over Luna to grab it. "The device automatically sent a signal to my computer, and we transferred the audio onto tapes. It was mostly a way to monitor them, I suppose," he flushed, realizing that was practically an admittance in and of itself. When Tom's expression remained blank, open and encouraging, Harry took in a deep breath. He fidgeted with his sweater sleeves, unsure where to begin. "Eavesdropping like that, it made us feel in control," he muttered, ducking his head. "And it also was so we so we would when it was time for them to be released. I'd call the police and - well, you know the rest from there." His head was ducked as he handed Tom the tape recorder.

Tom pursed his lips, fighting back the disappointment that threatened to bubble forward.

"Did you save the recordings? Keep them? Listen to them, over and over, reliving their torture - "

Harry was stricken. "No! I mean - yes, Ginny did. That was all her idea. She liked to listen to her and Luna's. It was creepy. I never did it. She would always get so angry because despite all her work to make Luna dependent," he forced out. "They were still having trouble. It made me sick."

"Is that why there was no recording device in our coffin?

"I didn't want her to listen in on us," Harry's face was red with embarrassment. "That was just between you and me. She was supposed to leave an anonymous tip with the police after the day was up; I know that would've been less time than the other matches had, but I already cared too much for you to let you suffer long."

Tom arched a brow. "Suffer, huh? Whatever happened to 'helping' others?"

Harry was quick to elaborate, tugging manically on his shirt sleeves. "I know now that it was just torture. It wasn't helping anyone, it just made things worse. Mundungus Fletcher is dead, Myrtle Warren tried to kill herself - I track her social media. Dumbledore is dead. Luna is missing. Perhaps I should've let Ginny kill me."

Tom made a noise in his throat, disgusted, and Harry flinched. "How much of _this_ was your idea, then, Harry?"

A tongue darted out to lick his lips. "I can't quite recall," Harry began, slow. Tom glared at him.

Harry glanced down at Luna, wincing. "C - can we talk in my room? The smell - "

Tom didn't move, not an inch, not even to blink.

Harry wondered if this was some sort of punishment.

"Okay," he blinked rapidly, his eyes gleaming with a suppressed wave of tears. It was like trying to hold back a waterfall, pointless and painful. "Okay, I get it. Don't you think I hate myself enough, Tom? It was me. I - I started this. I was sad and desperate - pathetic," he spat, nails scraping into his face. "I read a lot, and I found this research. I think you've read it, too. _'Mutual vulnerability fosters closeness.'_ I'm usually - when Ginny and I talk, it's hard enough for me to get a word in edgewise. She's the youngest of seven, she has to speak loud to get her point across - it's what makes her such a good journalist. She dominates conversations; s-so, if I have something to say, it better be good. Ginny was upset because she and Luna had been fighting. They were always fighting, it felt like, but all I said was that they should just . . . have better communication," he said brokenly. "That they should spend some time working on their relationship - show some vulnerability. And she . . . she wanted to _try_."

"There's a vast difference between talking things out and burying yourself underground," Tom said sharply, his throat tight.

"I know. I know. It sounded drastic at the time, I knew it . . . but I couldn't stop thinking about it. I couldn't stop dreaming about it - being in the coffin, waking up next to someone and knowing that in a few short hours you'll be closer than close. It sounded like - like immersion therapy, you know? Facing your fears, side-by-side with your soulmate?"

Harry wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Ginny took care of dousing Luna with the chloroform. I got some of the chemicals from work, but it's pretty easy to make. So long as you have chlorine bleach, you can mix it with some common household liquids. Acetone is in paint varnish, isopropyl is in rubbing alcohol," he said, almost nervous. "Transportation was the hard part. We buried the coffin ahead of time. Ginny's brother, Ron, is in freelance construction - he's gullible, and she's persuasive. Once we got to the burial site, it was easy for Ginny to lower herself and Luna into the coffin and arrange themselves. I made sure she could breathe. I made sure the recording device was working. The whole point of recording - it was all about _them,_ ensuring the matches were safe. I didn't want to listen in, but Ginny . . . she told me to wait for the 'magic words' before calling the police. Our entire _motive_ was getting Luna to admit her love for Ginny. Once we had that, it wasn't supposed to go any farther."

"But it did," Tom said, and those simple words made Harry's entire demeanor collapse in on himself.

"Ginny said," he murmured, twisting his lips. "She said we had to hide our involvement. If the kidnapping was only a one-off, she thought the police would be suspicious."

Tom narrowed his eyes. "But the case would've likely gone unsolved. You wouldn't be in this mess. Surely you can see that?"

A tear fell loose and made its way down Harry's cheek. He swiped it away, breath catching. "I couldn't have done this without her. She couldn't have done it without me. It was - it always has been both of us. I admit that. It might've been my research that triggered it, but she escalated. And I was twisted enough to agree with it. All of it."

"And take it a step further, time and time again?"

Harry was crying freely now. "I felt horrible the whole time, the build-up, the execution. It was only when I let them _out_ that I felt this overwhelming relief. Watching them get together, announce their engagement or relationship - I felt like I'd done something amazing. I created love out of nothing, love out of animosity. It - it felt good. Ginny needed validation she could have a happily ever after, too, so we kept going. We couldn't stop. It like an addiction. After Ginny and Luna was Gilderoy and Dung, then Myrtle and Olive, then Dumbledore and Grindelwald. After them - I wanted to stop. I was going to, but suddenly it didn't seem fair." His voice went up an octave. "It didn't seem fair, that Ginny could have her true love, that my 'matches' could be together, but _I_ couldn't. It wasn't fair that _I_ couldn't have someone, too."

Tom could taste bile in the back of his mouth. Perhaps it was shock that had made him so - so _accepting_ before. Accepting enough to bed the younger man, but seeing proof - _hearing_ proof was almost too much to bear. He hadn't truly realized the extent of Harry's manipulation until now. Whether the manipulation was meant with cruel intentions, however, was nebulous.

Shoulders stiff, Tom left the little closet and leaned heavily against Harry's vanity, breathing through his mouth.

He lifted his head as Harry - the younger man grateful for a reprieve from the smell - shut the closet door behind them. "Why me?" He spat, hating that he found Harry's trim figure, skin glowing in the morning light, so damn attractive. Both of them were still without pants, and Tom wanted to vindictively strip the other man bare. He wanted to reveal Harry's blemishless skin and mar it, scrape his nails down in bloody red lines, injure him physically like Tom was injured emotionally. "Why did you chose me, out of all people? I'm a cop, you dumbarse, if anyone was going to catch you - "

"I wanted it to be you," Harry said rapidly, lowering himself to the bed.

"You _wanted_ to be caught?" Tom said, affronted.

Harry shook his head fervently. Dark curls fluttered through the air, falling into his eyes. "Not to be caught. I wanted _you._ We first met after Romilda Vane tried giving me poisoned chocolates. She was fighting you so hard, but you were calm, collected, and seemed so - professional. You introduced yourself as Detective Chief Inspector, and I asked myself why would such an important man come down to help _me_ of all people. "

Tom couldn't help but remember. He had thought about that day so many times, desolately unable to find in his memory any glimpse of the green-eyed boy. Harry simply hadn't been important enough, back then. By now, he knew differently - but that didn't change the facts.

"We were short-staffed that day," Tom said slowly. "And I had been sick of paperwork. My mother - she had just had a relapse, and I wanted something that would remind me of why I was on the force. So I took the call."

Harry was quiet for a moment. Cheeks a faint shade of pink, he glanced up shyly. "Well, I thought it was fate. I wanted to thank you, but I never got the chance," Harry clenched the bed covers tightly. "And I thought I never would have the chance again. Then Slughorn assigned me to work the backroom, and you - you started coming in. Ordering medication for your mother. You told Slughorn that the price didn't matter, your mother wanted it, so she would get it. I - I heard your voice and I dropped a vial. It shattered all over me, and it smelt - " his eyes slipped shut. "It smelt like the earth, like dirt and soil and blood. I closed my eyes and listened to your voice, and I remembered your dark curls, your sharp eyes, those cheekbones, those strong hands - I'd never felt that way before. Not really."

Tom's brows furrowed. The flattery brushed against his shields and he couldn't stop his heart from picking up. "What do you mean?"

"When I was a kid, I forced it all down _so much._ My - my sexuality," he said, with a bitter curl of the lips. "I'm sure your profile could tell I was 'in the closet'. Perhaps even impotent. You know better than anyone that I'm not, I just . . . repressed it all. I yearned, but I could never touch. I - I hated myself, and I thought that someone like _you_ could never love someone like me. Then I remembered - my matches. Lockhart and Fletcher, Myrtle and Olive - they all came from different worlds, and yet - they could find that happiness. Why couldn't I? Why _can't_ I?"

Tom leaned into the vanity, watching Harry's reflection with hooded eyes. It was nearly impossible to resist the temptation of reaching out and providing comfort. It was easy last night. Why was it suddenly so hard now?

So much for his self-imposed avoidance, Tom grimaced.

He remembered predicting that this would only end in tears and heartbreak.

Harry was - he was broken. His reflection was almost warped as the boy curled into himself on the bed, lonely and isolated. He resembled a child, and Tom couldn't help imagining a young boy with shaggy hair and skeletal limbs curled up in a cupboard under the stairs. "Please don't be angry with me," Harry practically begged. "I didn't want to deceive you, but its the only way . . . the only way . . . " Harry trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

"The only way you know how to show love? I've heard that before," Tom spat.

"It was all real, Tom," Harry swore. "Everything I said, every emotion. It was just - just orchestrated."

Blue eyes rolled upward, still blazing.

"God help me, but I believe you. I want to help you, but to do that, you'll have to tell me everything," Tom's lips twisted bitterly. "And by everything, I mean _everything_ , Harry. The kidnappings, the orchestration, your motives. Luna's disappearance. I deserve that much, don't I?"

"And more," Harry added, quietly.

Flicking his eyes up and down Harry's body - seeing those legs tremble, the fabric of his sweater stretched and his cheeks ruddy with emotion, Tom's eyes darkened.

"I - I just don't understand," Harry spoke quietly. "You're a police officer. How can you just - " he closed his eyes. "I feel like this is all a trap, and as soon as I step outside of this house, I'll be arrested. It's a trap I'd willingly walk into, but a trap all the same."

Tom's lips pressed together, thinning. "I don't understand it either. It's so strange to me, that despite the badge and cuffs in my coat pocket, I haven't arrested you." There was much he wanted to say. "Everything is starting to look a lot different," his lips tugged into a frown.

"H - how so?"

Tom watched his one reflection, sweeping a hand down his cheek. Harry was staring at him, green eyes wide. "I find myself . . . _disliking_ the person I used to be. The person I had become. Cold. Unfeeling. I put up all these walls to keep myself from getting hurt. You tore them down."

Harry winced. "I'm sorry,"

"Don't be," Tom sighed, almost defeated. "It's harder this way, certainly, but I feel - this odd emotion, persevering despite the anger and hurt. Contentness, perhaps."

"Happiness?" Harry breathed, hopeful.

"Whatever it is, it's an emotion I haven't experienced in so long it feels foreign."

Harry sat up, pleading. His was lying deferentially on the bed, knees under him in a pose of worship. "Tom. You - you brought back to life. I regret so much, everything - except you," he said fervently. "I've seen what my actions have done to the other matches; it's driven them to hate, to drugs, to murder. I couldn't . . . I was terrified that would happen with us once you found out. As soon as I got out of the coffin, I couldn't let you kiss me, knowing what I'd done. I couldn't - I couldn't sully you like that. I don't deserve your help, or your pity - "

Strange, that only days ago it was Tom was thinking he could ever deserve Harry.

"Pity?" Tom tested the word. "No, never pity, Harry. It seems right, doesn't it? That someone desperate for love falls for someone afraid of it. Some twisted sort of hell. You do love me, don't you?"

"I'd never wanted anything more than I wanted you." Harry blurted. "It wasn't sexual, at first, it was more . . . emotional. I wanted those sharp eyes to look at me, to _see_ me. I wanted your stony face to smile. I wanted to hear you say my name, with love in your voice, and I wanted to say yours in return."

His whole body shuddered.

Tom slowly peeled away from the vanity, turning toward Harry.

"I planned it to a 'T'. I had Ginny abduct you, so it would be - we could meet fresh, in the coffin. I laid beside you, awake, for an hour while she lowered is in. I watched you, in the darkness, just breathing softly. If I closed my eyes I could imagine we were in bed. Together. Nothing I said in the coffin was a lie - nothing important, at least. That was me," the words rushed from his mouth, slurring and wet. Tom had to strain to hear him. "The 'me' that was scared, hurt and lonely, and just as vulnerable as my other victims. I - could feel every second pass, and I never wanted to leave. I was secure in the knowledge we could get out, but - when the time limit had passed, I was - I was almost relieved. I wanted to stay in that moment between life and death with you. I wanted to die with you. To die with someone who I loved. And to have our love transcend - "

A curl fell into his eyes, and Tom brushed it away without a thought.

"Life and death," Tom whispered. He was suddenly close - too close.

He breathed against Harry's neck, leaning over the boy's body with careful precision. Green eyes fell open, meeting Tom's immediately.

" _Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love him,"_ Harry said, tongue darting out to lick away the salt from his tears. Tom wanted a taste, too.

Tom leaned closer, bracketing Harry's body with his knees, a prison of flesh and unyielding muscle. "You were my God," Harry gasped, arching into the touch. "I trusted you, more than I trusted Ginny, to get us out."

"Then trust me with this," Tom said, his breath tickling Harry's lips. They were less than a hair's width apart, close but not close enough. Tom held himself firm. "We have Luna's body. We have all the evidence we need to indict her - "

"Are you saying . . . " Harry trembled. He was too afraid to _hope._ "That you and I, we could be free?"

"That's precisely what I'm saying. Do try to keep up."

"I'm . . . I'm trying, Tom. But how would you explain my presence? My fingerprintsall over everything," Harry put his hands on Tom's chest, feeling the pocket of his dress shirt. The photo within crinkled, and Harry took it out. Pain entered his eyes.

Tom plucked the photo away, staring down at it, himself. "You found it first," he began, contemplative. "You found _everything . . ._ the body, the photos, everything. You caught her at your house, trying to frame you for the kidnappings and the murder. There was a scuffle - " Tom's fingers brushed against the scar on Harry's forehead. Harry winced, the wound still sensitive. "And I just so happened to be meeting you for our first date. I heard something crash - eliciting probable cause - and forced my way inside just as Ginny made her break."

"So - everything?" Harry asked, unbelieving. " _Everything_ on Ginny's shoulders? Tom, how could she possibly bury _herself? "_

"Not everyone's as perceptive as you, darling," Tom played with the term of endearment, pleased when Harry flushed. "Perhaps it was a ploy - a lover's ploy, with her and Luna, to spice up their love life. But Ginny became obsessed with 'helping' others - giving them the same chance at love as her and Luna."

Harry struggled under Tom, pushing up. Their hips brushed accidentally, and Harry stilled. "Luna - she's innocent, Tom. We can't - "

"She's dead, Harry," Tom hissed into his ear. "And she was in an abusive relationship, emotionally and physically. The two fit our profile. Innocent, unassuming, small in stature. Ginny was intelligent, while Luna was altruistic. We predicted abuse in the Matchmaker's past," he brushed his lips apologetically against Harry's earlobe when the boy flinched. "And as the youngest of seven, Ginny must have felt neglected at times - it was hard for her voice to be heard, and with all the rough-housing in large families, violence was the only way she knew how. Luna, meanwhile, was a pacifist. And the two personalities clashed and confused even our best profilers."

Harry panted softly, unable to control the swivel of his hips as Tom spoke huskily into his ear.

"It was a lovers ploy," Tom continued. "And nothing more - until it turned deadly, and they turned on each other. Where did Luna work, Harry?"

"She writes f - for a nature magazine. O - on exotic animals and plants. Her friend, Neville, owned n-nursery," Harry stammered as Tom worked his way down to the boy's angular jugular.

Tom smirked against the boy's heated skin. Awfully convenient. "So she had access to plants? To poisons and chemicals?"

"I - I suppose so, yes," Harry said, strangled. Tom mouthed at his Adam's apple. To Harry, this was torture.

" _Good,"_ he breathed. Unwilling to give Harry any release, he lifted his hips away from Harry's. "Additionally," he hummed. "One of your victims, Myrtle, remembered your dog. What's to be done about that?"

Harry bit his lip, regretful at the loss of friction. "Ginny dog-sat, sometimes. When I had to work overtime or go to conferences in Slughorn's stead," he offered, quietly. "Tom? Do you - you think it'll work?

Tom pulled back. His face was soft, fond, with a dangerous glint in his eyes. He trailed his fingers down, down to rest over Harry's heart. The pulse was rapid, and Tom was enraptured; to hold a monster's heart in his hand was a form of control he never wanted to relinquish. "I have connections, Harry. I'm intimate with the investigation process, and I'm thorough. But for this to work - you need to be committed."

"C-committed?" Harry squeaked.

"Yes. Committed to your innocence. Committed to your life," his nails dug into Harry's chest, biting. Harry arched his back into it. "Committed to me. To _trusting_ me. You trusted me to get you out of the coffin alive, Harry. Can you trust me with this?"

Looking into those green eyes, glittering like the finest emeralds, Tom already knew Harry's answer.

Harry stared up in awe at Tom, amazed that such a man - once a good, honorable man - would commit himself to Harry's cause. Harry wondered - did commitment equate to love? He supposed it didn't matter; so long as Tom kept touching him like this, protecting him like this, saying his _name_ in that smooth, controlling tone. Harry would die a hundred little deaths just to keep this.

He breathed out the words, leaning forward to whisper it against Tom's lips.

 _"I do."_

Tom kissed him back, just as fierce.

Out of the two of them, Tom was still the darker one; he was simply better at hiding it.

If they were to compare demons and darkness now . . .

the scale would be absolutely equal.

* * *

 ** _EXCLUSIVE: In this video, 'The Matchmaker' survivors reveal how they stayed alive despite betrayal an_** ** _d loss._**

 ** _by Rita Skeeter_**

 ** _Skip to_. . . [12:05]**

 **(SOUNDBITE OF MUSIC)**

SKEETER: Well, what do you say? After that short break, onto the hard questions?

POTTER: Oh, so asking about our sex life wasn't a _hard_ question?

SKEETER: Mr. Potter, you sly boy! I see why you like this one, Tom.

RIDDLE (snorts): Sometimes, I wonder.

SKEETER: Jokes aside, Harry, I know this is a difficult subject for you, but I have to ask. You were Ginny Weasley's best friend - you didn't notice anything? Anything at all?

POTTER: You were her coworker, Rita. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, isn't it? Even with _my_ terrible vision. _(Laughter)_. I look back, and my view of her is sullied. I suspect _everything_. Every word she spoke, every strange look, every dark joke. The way she spoke about Luna is especially damning. I thought they were the perfect couple. I wanted to _be_ like them, to find someone I loved enough to . . . you know. Bury them six feet underground in the pursuit of a damn good conversation.

SKEETER: It didn't work for them, did it? Or any of the matches. But it worked for you two?

RIDDLE: It did. Rest assured, we won't be - ah, participating in any illicit drug deals, sleeping with our secretaries or smothering each other in our sleep. I hope. _(Laughter)_

SKEETER: Yes, well, wishful thinking is all well and good, but -

RIDDLE: The proof is in the pudding.

POTTER: I never understood that saying. _(Laughter)_

SKEETER: Ha! Neither do I. But please, Tom, continue.

RIDDLE: We broke the pattern. We clawed our way out of the coffin, defying the _Matchmaker's -_ Ginny's - methodology. We survived Ginny, again and again. There's no doubt in my mind we'll survive whatever obstacles are thrown in our path, together.

SKEETER: Well put, Tom.

POTTER: He's good with words.

SKEETER: Wonder what it would take to make him speechless, hm, Harry? _(Laughter)_

RIDDLE: Ah - please ask another question, Rita.

SKEETER: Alright, alright. On the subject of betrayal, Harry, what do you think of Weasley's accusations - that you were her partner-in-crime, the Clyde to her Bonnie?

POTTER: Sounds ridiculous when you say it like that. It hurts, is all. Even knowing everything that she's done, her betrayal hurts the most.

RIDDLE: Harry's been through enough without these false accusations painting him out to be anything other than what he is; a survivor.

POTTER: Tom . . . we both are. I wouldn't have lived without you.

RIDDLE (leaning in for a kiss): Nor I, you.

SKEETER: _Oh_ , how sweet. I hate to cut your enjoyment short, boys, but you have an audience of millions, here. And we've a time restraint. Aw, now Harry's blushing

POTTER: S - sorry.

RIDDLE: I'm not going to apologize for that.

SKEETER: I don't expect you to, Tom. I'm just amazed. Despite everything, you're together -

RIDDLE: Not despite everything, Rita - _because_ of everything. We never would've met, we never would've forged this profound bond without all that's occurred.

POTTER: I was in a dark place when I met Tom. Both figuratively and literally. I was just coming to terms with my sexuality and having . . . difficulty finding healthy ways to cope with past trauma.

TOM: Darling.

POTTER: It's alright. I'm fine. But really, Tom saved my life. That's a fact.

SKEETER: Digging your way out of a grave was quite the feat.

POTTER: Well, the desire to survive was pretty strong. And it didn't hurt that he promised that he'd kiss me.

SKEETER: Did he ever kiss you, as he promised?

RIDDLE: Eventually, I did. But not for a long while - when we got out, we were both tired and covered with dirt. It wasn't pretty, and swapping saliva wasn't on the top of our list.

POTTER: Yes, I was bleeding from - here, I can show you the scar.

SKEETER: Oh dear, that looks painful. And you've another scar from Ginny's attack, correct? I've got some readers calling you the 'Boy Who Lived'. It's quaint, isn't it?

POTTER: Er, no. It's just Harry, please. Just Harry.

SKEETER: Well, it's either that or the 'Chosen One'. Considering you two were hand-picked by the -

RIDDLE: We get it.

SKEETER: Humph. So, why wait so long to kiss?

POTTER: Things were just different, outside of the coffin. We were no longer two men on the brink of death. We were just trying to find our way home. We found a trucker and Tom contacted one of his coworkers, Diggle -

RIDDLE: I believe you know him quite well, Rita? You might be upset to learn he's recently lost his job - he was leaking secrets to the press, I don't suppose you know anything about that?

SKEETER (clears throat): I - ah - I wouldn't. Harry, please continue?

POTTER: . . . well, things happened so fast after that. Local police and first responders arrived, I was taken to the hospital while Tom stayed behind - it's always about work, for him. We . . . we lost contact for a while, until Tom used that famous policeman courage and asked me out. Turns out we'd both been having dreams about one another for a while.

SKEETER: I'm afraid to ask what _sort_ of dreams. ( _Laughter_ ). How was your first date?

RIDDLE: You've probably heard all about that by now. You've written half the news articles on the break-in and attempted framing. And to be frank, we're sick of talking about it. We just want - we want to be together, and to carry on as a united front.

SKEETER: You love each other, then? Truly?

RIDDLE: There's an interesting word for people like us. With love like ours.

SKEETER: And what is that?

RIDDLE (grabbing POTTER's hand): A perfect match. And I suppose we only have one person to thank for that. Our matchmaker.

SKEETER (sitting up): That's an interesting way of putting it. So do you justify -

RIDDLE (interrupting): Aren't we running out of time, Rita?

SKEETER: Alright, alright. I just have one last question for you, boys. I hear you're getting custody of a child - your godson, Harry?

POTTER (smiles): Yes, Teddy. His grandmother isn't as young as he used to be, and I've petitioned to take his guardianship.

RIDDLE: Or, rather, we have.

POTTER: It helps to have a boyfriend who's a cop; the judge loves Tom. We've also bought a house near Tom's mother, so Teddy will have no shortage of grandmothers doting on him.

SKEETER: Do you think you're fit to be a father? Either of you? A cop and a burgeoning chef?

RIDDLE: Our jobs have nothing to do with parenthood, although we'll certainly have some great home-cooked meals. ( _Laughter_ ). Harry will be the best father. He's kind and patient, and because he knows what darkness is out there. . . he'll be able to teach Teddy how to be a light.

POTTER: And we have a dog. Kids love dogs.

SKEETER: And dogs love kids. ( _Laughter_ ). Will Teddy have a little brother or sister to look forward to?

POTTER: Oh - uh. I think that's a conversation for another day.

SKEETER: Perhaps a book deal is in the works? No? Ah, we can go over the details later. It was a pleasure to speak with both of you, and I wish the best for your little family; you're both incredibly brave, and I can't thank you enough for meeting with me. As always, I'm Rita Skeeter -

POTTER (interrupts): And I'm Harry Potter! I've always wanted to do that.

SKEETER: Might as well sign off too, detective.

RIDDLE: It's Detective _Chief_ _Inspector_ Thomas Riddle. Get it right.

SKEETER (shrugs): Close enough. And this was _your_ inside scoop on everything _The Matchmaker!_

 **[Up next: SHOCKING!** **G** **runnings Drills director arrested on embezzlement charges and child abuse allegations!]**

* * *

 _ **The End**_


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